


Dodger & Company

by HeroicDisney



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Oliver & Company (1988)
Genre: 1980s, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Anger Management, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, Disney, Dogs, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gang Violence, Gay Character, Gen, Growing Up, Homelessness, Lesbian Character, M/M, Mommy Issues, Moving Out, New York City, Nostalgia, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24164377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroicDisney/pseuds/HeroicDisney
Summary: A long sequel to the movie. New York is ever the same, but always changing. Fagin has moved the Company to a Bronx apartment, a neighborhood Dodger hates. When his long-lost mother shows up, Dodger makes a drastic change. He misses Oliver, the cat who touched his heart. But NYC can be dangerous: a vicious dog gang, the Purebreds, begins taking over and attacking any mixed-breed mutt in the city. Rita steps up as leader of the Company. Oliver gets dragged into the gang war. Now Dodger must save himself, his friends, and every mutt in New York from the elitist Purebreds. Along the way, he just might remember how to live no worries, no cares.
Comments: 61
Kudos: 19





	1. "Prelude/Angry Young Man"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue to the story. A mutt puppy is abandoned by his mother to grow up in the Bronx alone. A homeless man, Fagin, names him "Dodger" after a baseball cap and eventually takes him in. Dodger decides to live no worries, no cares from now on.

The night swirled with cold white flakes that made him shiver, especially when they fell on his nose. Was the city always this cold, or would it go away after a while? He hoped it’d go away — his mother promised it would — but in the few weeks of his life, cold was all he’d known. He and Mom moved around often to stay warm, and he was tired of it.

Tonight, they were hidden behind a dumpster in an alley. He was teething, and he loved to chew on discarded shoes. His white, gray, and brown-spotted fur was thin and scraggly, dirty and patchy. He had two floppy brown ears, a gray muzzle, and a white tail that wagged as he devoured his shoe. “Take that! Grr! And that!” Destruction was a thrill.

His mother told him not to leave the alley, but he liked to creep around the dumpster to the very corner and watch the honky cars go zoom. Sometimes they slid on the icy road, barreling too fast through the snowdrift.

That night, he’d wanted to watch the cars. The mutt puppy wandered farther than he should’ve, eyes wide at the headlights, the tires, the horns — the city’s natural symphony. Not many dogs had his innate appreciation for music.

He returned to their alley, but her scent led out of it. She wasn’t behind the dumpster.

“Momma?” The pup charged onto the sidewalk. “Where’d ya go?”

He ran an entire block, following her scent. He tracked her paw prints in the snow. Finally, turning a corner, he saw he huddled under a flickering street lamp. She turned at his approach. He saw tears in her eyes. “Baby, please… Don’t follow me.”

She greatly resembled him, except that her fur was sandy-colored with brown spots, not white and gray. Like him, she was some sort of terrier mix. The streets had taken their toll on her, sunken the bags below her eyes. Her ribs poked through her fur. Her name was Annie.

“But I wanna.” He marched up to her. “I wanna go with ya.”

“Ya can’t.” Her voice cracked. “Go back to tha alley.”

Her stomach growled miserably.

“I don’t want ya.”

The street lamp sparked out. She sped away, just like a honky car. 

And in his mind, the screech of tires skidding the road.

His heart beat faster than a puppy’s ever should. He shut his eyes, convinced he’d wake up tucked beside her. He opened them, and he was still standing in the snow. “Gah. Grr!” He shook his head and charged the other direction, growling. “Grrrr!” 

His paws slipped on a patch of ice on the sidewalk. He slid into a tin trash can. “Aahhh!” He kicked the can over, snarling and howling. “Aagh!” The tears froze on his cheeks.

When he turned the corner, he ran into some New Yorkers with their hands in their pockets, moving fast through the cold. One passed too close, and the pup snarled and bit his shoe. He was good at biting shoes. “Get off, ya mutt!” The man kicked him away.

The snow was coming down heavier. The pup shivered cold on the outside and hot on the inside. He fought back tears, for they were painful when frozen. He shook his head and ran into a new alleyway, hidden from the people.

A growl came from behind. He turned around just in time to catch the attack.

It was an underfed German Shepherd puppy with black-and-brown fur and leering yellow eyes, but he was hardly bigger than himself. The two pups circled each other, pretending they were older than they were. Their fur bristled, their lips curled back. 

“This is my alley!” he barked. “I don’t want ya!”

Claws and teeth clashed. The Shepherd fought hard, but the terrier mutt snapped and snarled with unbridled ferocity. He’d never bitten anything but shoes, hats, and newspapers, but it’d been good practice. He didn’t realize how hard he bit the Shepherd’s ear.

When he stopped thrashing, he saw a deep red gash where the ear had been. The puppy howled in pain. He dropped to the ground and whimpered, tail down.

“Stop, please!” he cried. “It hurts — it hurts!”

Horrified, the mutt pup dashed out of the Shepherd’s alley and back into the snowy streets. The fight, the injury, it’d all happened absent of thought. He scampered from one block to the next, running from every human, even the ones who reached out to him. The sound of cars honking, shrieking, was no longer a symphony. It was chaos.

He sunk to the cold concrete, whimpering at the cacophony. He knew his mother would scold him for what he’d done — she was always telling him he was too ferocious, too excitable — then he remembered the screeching tire skid in his mind. Rubber on road.

The noise overwhelmed, and he ran into a building with crumbling walls for cover. He didn’t know what the yellow “condemned” tape meant. He stepped into the center of a wooden floor, and he heard a crack. In an instant, the planks broke.

The puppy crashed through the floor, landing hard on concrete below. He whimpered, more from fright than pain, coughing as the dust cloud cleared. He’d fallen into a basement. When the dust settled, he saw there wasn’t much down here. The walls were cement blocks and mold grew on rusty pipes overhead. There was a metal tank, a few crates, and lots of garbage.

It was quiet, at least. The pup sneezed and shuddered. Water dripped.

Then something caught his eye in the corner of the basement: a large black instrument, almost like a table, only curvy-shaped and with rows of black-and-white keys. It was covered in filth, a bit cracked, but still standing. Even had a bench in front.

Slowly, carefully, he hopped up and pressed his paw to a key. Plink!

He liked the sound. He played another Plink! This one was higher and sharper, and when he hit a key at the opposite end, it was louder and deeper. These weren’t any old sounds.

The pup had an ear for music. It was talent. It was euphony.

He played a few more notes, and he had to laugh through his tears. He invented a song, not exactly professional but he could work on it. Hitting those keys, he briefly forgot what had happened that night. When he stopped playing and crawled on top of the music table, trying to fall asleep, he remembered. He hated how she made him feel.

Hungry and tired and nameless, he stayed safe in that basement. It was hidden enough — humans never found him there. He avoided the hole in the ceiling, which sometimes let the rain and cold in, but this was the best place he’d stayed yet. Good find for a puppy.

And in a few months, he wasn’t a puppy anymore.

* * *

New York City. That was the name for his home, his city, the morning fog and impossible buildings and every kind of vehicle — cars, taxis, trucks, limousines, bikes, you name it, they had it — it wasn’t called the City That Never Sleeps for nothing.

More than vehicles or hotdogs or bagels, what NYC had more of than anything was people.

New Yorkers bustled up and down the streets in fur coats, cruddy jackets, even bare shoulders to the cool morning air. They drove their loud vehicles, honked their horns, and yelled all the time. An unshaven man waved newspapers to passers-by. A fellow who reeked of sewer water was screaming about “aliens.” Another warned about the “end of days.”

All of a sudden, a hairy old man in patchy overalls grabbed the young mutt and waved him around the crowds. “I need money to feed my dog!” But the mutt growled and clawed and bit his hand, and the man dropped him. “I need money for a rabies shot!”

New Yorkers were the worst, but he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

He yelped as a taxi cab splashed him with dirty puddle water. “Hey, I’m walking here! I’m walking here!” he barked. The young dog shook his fur, grumbling.

He’d learned much in the months since the night he found his basement. His music table was called a piano. The neighborhood he’d been born in, with its red-brick buildings and faulty street lamps, was the Bronx. It was north of the rest of New York, and what he’d discovered by exploring the lower city was that in the Bronx, the strays were a little fiercer, the apartments a little shabbier, and the people a lot poorer. 

Now he could navigate the neighborhood with his eyes closed. He’d been to the Bronx Zoo and seen animals stranger than he’d ever imagined. He’d snuck into Yankee Stadium to watch a game and steal hotdogs. He’d drunk disgusting water from the Hudson, the East River, and Long Island Sound. Made him sick, but totally worth it.

And when he’d gotten tired of it all, he headed south like a bird.

He crossed a bridge over the Harlem River and wandered the urban jungle they called the Big Apple. Steel towers rose high above the streets, people ran to and fro like they were all late for something, and best of all, they all smelled like money. Money meant food.

He sauntered into an alley, sniffing around but finding little. Suddenly, the back door of a bar slammed open, and two men threw a scrawny fellow onto the pavement. “And stay out!” 

When they’d shut and locked the door, the shabby man jumped to his feet, swaying where he stood. He was unshaven, his red hair untidy, and his green trenchcoat patchy. He saw the terrier mutt staring at him. “Ah, hey there. Don’t got a flask on ya, do ya, pal?’

The mutt shook his head. This man was so nonthreatening that he had no reason to run.

The dirty-faced fellow staggered, leaning on a dumpster for support. “Suppose ya looking for lunch, huh?” The dog barked and pawed at the dumpster. His nose was telling him there was a burger to be found. “Well, ya happen to be looking at a dumpster-diving pro!”

The man checked that no one from inside the bar was watching. “Ah, they deserve it. Never appreciate a paying customer, so why would they appreciate one with no money?” He gave a wheezy laugh. “They can put it on my tab.” He took a hairpin out of his pocket, and in a moment, he’d picked the lock and flung the dumpster open.

He made fast work of the garbage. When he found the burger — complete with cheese, pickles, and ketchup, not too stale — he ripped it in half and shared it with the mutt.

When they were done, the man pulled a dog treat out of his pocket. “Got a couple dogs myself, y’know. Big dog named Einstein. Had him for years.” He held the treat out to the mutt, who took it warily. “We just found this fat fella, a Bulldog. His tags say Francis, and he… well, he ain’t taking too well to tha bum life. Real refined type.”

He hiccuped a laugh. “Bet ya could teach him a thing or two! A survivor, ain’t ya?”

The man scratched his ginger hair, and a tick flew out. “Oh, hold up — haven’t introduced myself. Tha name’s Fagin. Alec Fagin.” He dug through his coat pockets for another treat, but this one he ate himself. “Ya got a name, boy?”

When the food was gone, the mutt distanced himself from Fagin. 

“No name, eh?” Fagin looked around the alley for anything of interest. Squeezed behind the dumpster was a weathered baseball cap, blue with a white B emblazoned in the center. He saw the mutt’s eyes light up, and when he tossed him the hat, he happily began to chew. “Ah, we got a Brooklyn Dodgers fan. Well, why don’t we call ya... Dodger?”

It was then that the bar door swung open again, and the two strong men stuck their heads out. They saw the open dumpster. “Hey! Ya want us to call the cops?”

“That’s our cue, boy!” Fagin scrambled to his feet and dashed off.

He didn’t know why, but he followed him. Maybe he liked the name “Dodger.” Maybe for the burger and dog treat. Maybe it was because dogs have always been, and always will be, the best judge of a man’s character. 

They strutted the streets together, trying not to look half-starved to the judgmental crowds’ eyes. “Let’s see what we can scrounge up.” He pointed to a nearby pawn shop.

From inside, Dodger could hear the man’s animated salesmanship. “Ya getting a great bargain for this collector’s piece! I’m practically giving it away!” But the pawnbroker didn’t look too impressed with Fagin’s variety of watches. In fact, he looked to be ordering Fagin to leave his store. Fagin slumped onto a nearby metal bench.

His pockets seemed to be endless. Fagin reached to the very bottom and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbled. “I know, I know… Bad habit. Expensive habit. But we all got our problems, don’t we?” He lit a smoke.

A man who walked past in a peacoat coughed at the smell. He spat at Fagin’s feet.

Dodger instantly growled and snapped his fangs at the man’s fancy black shoes, and he ran away in terror. Fagin didn’t look amused. “Hey! Ya better cut that out.” He sighed dismally. “Get that temper under control before it gets ya in trouble, mister.”

Dodger whimpered and crawled under the street bench.

“Y’know, I get tha idea ya all alone out here.” Fagin had no more dog treats, but he found a rolled newspaper in his pocket that he let Dodger shred. “I got this place below tha docks, well, a houseboat is what ya’d call it. Little run-down, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?” 

He took a long draw of his cigarette and blew a smoke cloud. “Point is, I have Einstein and Frankie, and they ain’t too much bother, honest. So if ya interested, uh, ya can always…”

It was then that Dodger bolted from under the bench, ran down the sidewalk, and disappeared into a crowd of people. He knew humans, and he didn’t trust any of them.

Sure, the name was awesome, but that was all he’d take from this Fagin fellow. Living with humans wasn’t his style. If he’d looked back, he would’ve seen Fagin watch him run away with a long face, but Dodger never looked back on principle.

New York was his home. Bad as it could be, it was all he needed.

* * *

It was impossible to see the tops of the skyscrapers that night against the bursting winds, the gray storm clouds, and the onslaught of rain. The city and all its inhabitants were drenched. Dodger had been on the docks of the East and watching the storm gather, fascinated by the raindrops splashing the river’s surface, but he’d lingered too long.

The young dog ran through busy traffic and reentered the city. The downpour had turned cold and windy, and soon Dodger was freezing his tail off. He tried to look for shelter, but he couldn’t see anything through the heavy rain.

Lightning crashed overhead, and Dodger whimpered and ran into an alley. He crawled inside a cardboard box, but it was soon damp and falling apart. 

He didn’t know why he was so tired. He’d seen storms before, but this time he was cold and hungry — he was so tired of being cold — and he had no place to go. His piano basement in the Bronx had been torn down, the entire building had gone down. 

Soaked to the bone, he laid his head on the concrete. He shut his eyes.

Dodger didn’t realize he was wrapped in a trenchcoat.

He wasn’t aware that arms picked him up.

The man carried him under a stairwell, where they sat huddled by crumpled papers, rotten apples, and soda cans. He rocked him in his arms, shivering because all he had was a t-shirt and overalls. “It’s okay, pal.” Dodger’s eyelids cracked open.

He saw Alec Fagin’s smiling, unshaven face. “I want ya.”

They waited out the storm for hours. When it’d become a light fall of rain, when the morning sun made the droplets sparkle, Fagin shook him awake. He could feel the dog was cold, so he took a red bandana from his own neck and tied it around Dodger’s.

“Alright, boy.” Fagin staggered to his feet with Dodger in his arms. The mutt was too weak to resist, even if he wanted to. “We’re going home.”

* * *

Home was a creaky houseboat hidden below the docks by the Brooklyn Bridge, not officially licensed to be there, but it was so pitiful that no authority cared to intervene.

Dodger had been there a week. It was blistery on cold nights, and all his other dogs huddled to keep warm — but Dodger wasn’t there quite yet.

There was an enormous gray Great Dane who drooled like a baby and took up the entire couch when he napped. Then there was a tan-colored Bulldog with a British accent, and he dominated the TV whenever he found a Shakespeare play or an arts documentary. They were Einstein and Francis, the two he’d been told about. Nice guys with no survival skills.

There was also a sweet, shy girl who rarely spoke to anyone. She was a golden-furred mutt, some kind of Spaniel, and her name was Nancy. He often caught her staring at him, and when he’d look back, she’d pretend she wasn’t. Whenever Nancy had a nightmare, a scruffy, black-and-white collie named Charlie would cuddle with her. Charlie was a tough girl who’d growled when they first met, but she’d started to warm up to him. The third girl was a brown-furred Saluki with a head of bushy maroon hair. She was the spunkiest, definitely the most sensible, and she liked to rough-and-tumble with Charlie. Her name was Rita.

The dog he liked best was Noah. He was a dark gray Bullmastiff, a purebred, and he knew when to talk to Dodger and when to leave him alone. He was the only one funny enough to make him laugh. He knew Noah had braced the streets just as long as he had.

They were a funny crowd who called themselves the Company. Truth be told, he liked them all, but when they got to be too much he’d duck out the wooden stairs.

That was where he found himself tonight — sitting on the splintery roof of Fagin’s houseboat. The nights had been warm since the storm cleared. Dodger never saw stars in the city, of course, but the moon was always there. He used to howl to it growing up.

“Just look at ya. Big and beautiful.” Except Dodger wasn’t talking to the moon. His eyes were fixed on the Manhattan skyline, for from the roof of the houseboat, he had a perfect view of the city. He saw the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State, the Twin Towers, the Chrysler, the Cities Services building, Rockefeller, and countless others.

“I beat ya, New York.” Dodger grinned proudly, head raised. “I survived everything ya threw at me. This pup ain’t begging for a meal no more.”

Ever since that night, he had fought. He’d fled from bigger dogs and scared off smaller ones, he’s stolen food and slept in cardboard, and he’d been lonely. Angry and lonely.

“You okay up there, Dodge?” a voice called from the deck.

Rita had peeked her head out the stairs. He hadn’t realized he’d been sniffling, and after wiping his face, Dodger looked over the edge of the roof with his signature grin. “All good, Rita baby.” He couldn’t resist flirting. She always rolled her eyes in the funniest way.

She vanished back downstairs, sorry she’d asked. Dodger wished she’d climbed up to join him on the roof, but he wasn’t about to ask her. Maybe when he’d been there two weeks.

His eyes were still wet. “C’mon, get it together… this is embarrassing.” Dodger wiped his eyes, but it didn’t help. The honky cars, the piano, the storm. It was too much.

“I hate this. I absitively posolutely hate this.” Thinking of what he’d been through was the worst feeling in the world. Dodger never wanted to feel this way again. He never wanted to worry or care ever again. “Worrying never helped. Neither has caring.”

His ears perked up, and at last, he stopped crying. Remembering that snowy night had brought back a tune he’d played, the first tune he’d ever invented. “Why should I worry? Why should I care?” He wagged his tail. The rhythm came back to him. “I may not have a dime…’ He looked at the New York skyline. “...but I got street savoir faire! Ooh, that’s catchy.”

Dodger curled up on the roof, not caring that the sun would be up soon. For now, he was content to watch the cars driving over the Brooklyn Bridge. Each honky car was one of his worries speeding away. Fagin had been right when he told him to get his temper in check — anger was a downer. It was easier to dance through life with no worries, no cares.

He hadn’t slept all night, but Dodger decided to stay up to watch the sunrise.


	2. "Say Goodbye to Hollywood"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after the movie, Fagin has moved the Company to a Bronx apartment, which Dodger hates. He enjoys himself in the city, then goes to spend the night at the Foxworth mansion with Oliver. Rita meets an old stray who needs her help.

Time passed like subway trains in the Big Apple: one moment it was the end of spring, then the doors opened, passengers flooded out and in, and the train whooshed down the tunnel into a chilly autumn. One moment Dodger and the Company were rescuing Jenny Foxworth from her mafia kidnapper, Bill Sykes, and they were waving goodbye to Oliver the orange tabby kitten, who would stay with Jenny. It was all just a moment ago.

The next moment — the next subway arriving at the station — took them far, far away from the life Dodger knew. Everything moved fast in New York City.

“He can’t be serious,” Dodger had said the day Fagin came home to the houseboat and announced they were moving. But to his dismay, Fagin had begun packing his belongings. He didn’t have much to his name; little worth keeping, anyways. He’d made several trips back and forth on his motorbike-and-shopping-cart contraption.

On the last trip, he’d paid a trucker some bills Dodger didn’t know he’d had. They loaded up the recliner, the TV, and a patched-up couch from Goodwill. At last, he loaded his dogs.

The trucker drove them away from the Brooklyn Bridge piers and into the middle of Manhattan, then further north till they crossed a familiar bridge. “No, no, no,” Dodger moaned. The ugly brick buildings, the littered streets, the cracked pavement — it was all just like he remembered. “There’s gotta be a better place than tha Bronx.”

They’d parked outside a three-story tall tenant building, only the gutters were coming off, windows were duck-taped, and the top floor looked in danger of falling apart. Of course, that was the floor Fagin took them to. He threw nervous smiles at the other renters, who weren’t the prettiest bunch but at least didn’t look dangerous. “Home sweet home, fellas.”

It was a cramped studio apartment, the kitchen only separated by the change of carpet to tile. Fagin and the trucker set up the couch, the recliner, the TV, and a stained mattress. The cupboard doors were coming off the hinges and the bathroom smelled moldy, but aside from that, home sweet home. This was where the Company found themselves that breezy fall day.

But the Company in the apartment — the dogs Oliver met the day he’d followed Dodger to the houseboat — was not the exact same Company from back in the day.

Einstein, the oldest dog there, was snoozing in the recliner chair. Rita, the brown Saluki girl, was resting on the patchwork couch. She couldn’t doze off, however, because someone was crunching kibble very loudly. Rita hopped off the couch and went to the food bowls, where a hairy rat wearing a green armband around his head was stuffing his face.

“That’s enough, Tito. You’ve eaten twice today.” She flicked him away with her paw.

The Chihuahua swallowed the bite and yipped, “No fair! No fair! I’m hungry.”

“We’re all hungry, but we gotta make it last. Fagin can’t afford dog food every week, so no splurging.” The pipsqueak she lectured was the most recent addition to the Company, not counting Oliver. His name was Ignacio Alonzo Julio Federico de Tito, but he went by his last name. The Chihuahua darted over to an English Bulldog lying on a mattress.

“Whatcha reading, Frankie, huh? Whatcha reading? Romance? Drama?”

“My name is Francis, not Frankie, and I am not reading. We canines cannot read.” Francis sniffed disdainfully and drew the book — _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ — closer to him. “I have simply memorized the Bard’s magnificent lines.” He cleared his throat. “To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer…” 

“I think I’m gonna hurl.” Tito crawled over the Bulldog and hopped away.

Rita was happy that her gangmates were content. Sure, the apartment wasn’t a Fifth Avenue townhome, but it wasn’t in danger of tipping over during a storm. It was a safe place to sleep and they had enough food, and for that, she was grateful. They were all grateful — well, four out of five were. They were short one scruffy-furred, bandana-wearing rascal.

“As tha handsome devil entered tha scene, his loyal fans applauded, not just outta sheer joy for seeing him, but also for tha tender and juicy steak he’d stolen for them to enjoy.” The one-and-only Dodger took a bow. “Ya may proceed with tha applause.”

His fur was white and gray with splotchy brown spots, but where the spots ended and the dirt began, she couldn’t tell. Dodger was some kind of terrier mutt — Parson Russell, she mostly thought — but he took pride in being a mongrel. He had a constant stench about him, like trash cans and spilled gasoline, but Rita was used to it by now. He’d entered the apartment through the doggy door, which Fagin never closed.

“Ooh, Dodger, man! Ya got steak? Medium or well-done?”

“Rare.” Dodger threw the meat at their paws. “Like my talents.”

Tito, Francis, and Einstein tore into the steak like kids with Halloween candy, but Rita was hesitant. They left them their share, and she split it with Dodger. “This is delicious,” she admitted, “I just don’t see why you gotta go out so much. Fagin says — ”

“Please. What Fagin don’t know won’t hurt him.” Ever since they’d moved to the Bronx apartment, ever since Fagin had begun his new job working long shifts at a drugstore on the corner, he had asked them to not get up to trouble. To be normal dogs who didn’t steal people’s wallets, watches, or lunch-hour sandwiches. “But it ain’t like Fagin knows what’s best for us. What was he thinking, moving us here?”

“Okay, it’s not ideal, but at least it’s four walls and a roof.”

“Well, I sure preferred tha houseboat. It used to rock me to sleep.”

“Yeah… I wasn’t too crazy about all that rocking.” When he passed near, Rita smelled saltwater in his fur, even though he wasn’t wet. “You were at the docks again, weren’t you?”

He shuffled his paws. “I’m sorry, Rita baby.” Now he walked in circles, trying to find a spot to lie down, but a studio apartment was crowded with five dogs. “I know ya trust Fagin, but I don’t trust any — what I mean is, when ya been on ya own for so long — ”

“It’s okay, sugar.” She nuzzled him, but he drew away.

There was no need for him to be embarrassed around the rest of the gang. Dodger and Rita had never kept their flirtations a secret — neither were shy dogs, and neither pretended they were exclusive — but their back-and-forth had never blossomed into anything more serious. On good days, she wondered if it would. On bad days, if it should.

It seemed this was a bad day for him.

“Listen, Dodge, you don’t gotta trust Fagin. I just hope you trust me.”

“Rita… that ain’t fair. Ya know that ain’t fair.” He gave up on trying to lie down and jumped up the couch, staring at the city through the planks that boarded the windows. “I don’t like people acting like they know what’s best for me.”

“If you keep going out, Fagin is gonna start closing the doggy door.”

He gazed out at the bright sunshine, the blue sky with not a cloud in sight. His tail wagged to see the mailman driving up the block, and he wanted to bark like a puppy — he used to chase that very same mailman all over the Bronx — and he whimpered when he passed out of view. “Look, I’m leader of tha Company, remember? Ya elected me president.”

“Uh, actually, man...” Tito piped up, “...ya elected yaself.”

“Best dog for tha job, right? So as leader, I say there’s no sense pretending we’re normal house pets. We’re street dogs, ain’t we? I say we come and go whenever we please.”

“This is a democracy, old chap. We put such things to a vote.”

Dodger turned on poor Francis. “Ya saying ya don’t agree with me?”

“Well, it’s simply… Fagin desires an ordinary, respectable life, so we should — ”

“Ah, c’mon, guys! Tha old Company was way cooler than this.” He looked at everyone present. Einstein had woken up from the recliner and was listening, a little confused as to why their voices were raised. Tito had crawled under Francis’s front legs. Rita was giving him her disappointed look. “Let’s put it to a vote like Frankie said. Everyone, bark once if ya say we ignore tha old man and do whatever we want.”

Dodger barked. No one else made a sound.

“I can’t believe it. Did all of ya get neutered and not tell me?

The mutt jumped off the couch and strutted around the room, the way he did when he was acting cool and aloof to avoid losing his temper. Rita knew him better than he realized. She’d seen him for the survivor he was, and she had nothing but respect for that. She also knew he buried a lot more than bones underground. But she’d seen a change come over him that spring, a good change, with the newest addition to the gang. After Tito, that was.

“Dodger baby, I know what’s really bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me. Just don’t get why you guys worry so much.”

He sauntered through the apartment, humming one of his many songs. He gulped down some kibble and made an exaggerated face. “Tastes like cardboard.” He walked into the bathroom, but it was so tiny he felt claustrophobic. He laid down on the kitchen tiles, but they were hard and cold. He tried the mattress, but Francis and Tito were already on it, and three's a crowd. So he made for the doggy door. “Sorry, fellas. I can’t stay cooped up here.”

“I know you miss the kid, hon. Just say so. It’s okay.”

“So what if I do?” And with that, Dodger whipped around and disappeared nose-first through the doggy door. It only really fit him — Rita could barely squeeze through, Frankie was too fat, and Einy too big; of course, Tito could if he wanted to, but he didn't want to — so none of the Company went after him. They just stared, speechless.

With their fearless leader gone, the Company looked to Rita.

“He’s just being dramatic.” Rita sighed, for no matter how frustrating he got, she knew him. She couldn’t stay mad at someone who, on the inside, was rocking like a boat in a storm. “He’ll be back in a few days with a new pair of sunglasses.”

* * *

The wild streets made his favorite sounds in the world. His city was construction-yard jackhammers, vendors yelling for customers, and honking traffic jams. She was skyscrapers and cold bagels in the morning rush, a sunset stroll in Central Park, or a subway ride at 3 A.M.

“Smell those soft pretzels!” He could practically taste the salt. “Hear that afternoon traffic!” He could listen to those horns all day. There was no place like Midtown.

“Can’t believe they’d ever give this up.” Dodger breathed in the polluted city air. It was an amazing smell. “I tell ya, they’re settling.” The pigeons must’ve agreed with him, because they cooed and nodded their heads. “I gotta take my mind off them… I need a girl.”

That perked him up. Dodger ran to the concrete’s edge, jumped at a passing car, and landed on the roof. He’d been car surfing the city ever since he was a pup. It’s gotten from the Bronx to Uptown and back again, and now it took him to the ever-bustling, ever-crowded Times Square. Broadway billboards lit up the sky. Neon pink lights advertised less-respectable shows. “Cause really, where else would I find a lovely lady but Times Square?”

Dodger sniffed through the crowd and spotted a Beagle girl in a pink collar and leash.

“I’m no show judge,” he whistled, “but I know first place when I see it.”

“Hmph!” She stuck her nose up. “I don’t talk to filthy street mutts!”

“Me neither, sweetie. If ya see any, lemme know and I’ll chase them off.”

“If you get a single flea on me, I swear to Lassie, I’ll — ”

“Ooh, prissy missy! Calm down, toots. Ya too stuck-up for me.”

The Beagle’s eyes went wide. She ran to a store window to check her reflection, and Dodger was reminded of a certain award-winning poodle who lived on Fifth Avenue. While she contemplated rejection, he strutted off laughing. “Ah, what a hoot!”

Dodger looked back and narrowed his eyes. “I ditch ya, not tha other way around.”

He’d lost track of time having so much fun. The skyscrapers of Times Square were already glowing with orange evening light, which meant he’d soon be needing somewhere to sleep. That was nothing to worry about — he’d spent most of his life finding safe spots to spend the night. Times Square was too crowded, so he went farther down the street.

He ran into a crowd, winding through the maze of legs and coming out with a wallet — sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. Tourists made it too easy. Dodger’s first thought was to take it to Fagin, then he remembered their old man was trying to live on the straight and narrow. He threw the wallet to the ground. Seconds later, a man yelled that he’d been robbed.

Dodger’s nose twitched. Food vendors were everywhere, but he recognized this particular stench. Only one man in the Five Boroughs cooked hotdogs with that much grease.

“Hotdogs, people! Get your hotdogs! Hot and fresh!” Old Louie was as repulsive as a New York sewer and as vile as the mutant rats that lived down there. His black hair was oilier than his sausages, his rolls of fat so huge Dodger often wondered how he managed to stand. Looking at him, he remembered the day he’d stolen a roll of all-beef kosher franks.

And suddenly, Dodger knew where he wanted to spend the night.

* * *

Oliver’s day had been wonderful, if a bit tiring. The Foxworth family had celebrated the weekend by taking a walk in Central Park, eager to see the warm colors of fall painted on the trees. They’d walked trails, seen the statues, and even had a picnic of sandwiches and lemonade that Winston the butler had packed for them. Georgette hadn’t been thrilled to tag along — “It’s so chilly! This breeze will ruin my hair!” — but Oliver had a great time, even if he was on a leash. Jenny smiled to see him chase squirrels and bat acorns.

After what had occured in April, over six months ago, Jenny’s parents were desperate to spend time with her. Someone else in the office could take the business trips.

Her mother and father were now tucking Jenny into bed. David Foxworth kissed her forehead. “Did you have a good time today?” She nodded and hugged him. “I’m glad. Sleep well, sweetheart.” He was a tall man with a bushy handlebar mustache and constant bags under his eyes. His auburn hair had gone gray before any of his business colleagues.

May Foxworth, a woman with a gentle smile and blonde curls who’d never let the world know she’d gone gray, kissed her daughter’s cheek. “If you have nightmares, we’ll be just downstairs.” Jenny kissed her back, then Oliver mewed at them.

“Oliver wants a kiss, too.” Jenny held him up and her mother kissed his ginger head. Mr. and Mrs. Foxworth hovered by the door before finally leaving. Jenny pretended to be asleep so her parents wouldn’t know she could hear their whispers.

“ — think the therapy is really helping. Jen hasn’t had a nightmare in days.”

“Oh, I hope so. I’m glad that awful mobster is dead. Is that wrong?”

“I don’t know, dear. Let’s not dwell on it.”

Sometimes Oliver had terrifying visions that woke him in the middle of the night: a sneering mobster in a cloud of smoke, or Dobermans opening their jaws to devour him. He could only imagine what kept Jenny awake at night.

The little redheaded girl rolled over and tried to doze off, but to no avail. Oliver tiptoed across the bed, hopped down, and went over to the window to gaze at the city. A million lights shone from a thousand buildings. Who needed stars when you lived in the Big Apple? He’d grown to love the concert of late-night traffic and jazz drifting through the air.

Then Oliver heard the banging of paws on metal below him. Some four-legged creature was climbing the fire escape. Was it a Doberman? He mewed urgently at Jenny, and she leapt out of bed. Jenny’s fright became relief when she was who it was. “Hello, you.”

She slid the windowpane open, and Oliver caught wind of a familiar stink. It was garbage bins and engine smoke, stale bacon and cigarettes, all in the fur of his very best friend.

“Dodger!” He greeted the mutt as he crawled into the bedroom.

“Hiya, kiddo. I was hoping ya’d be home.” 

Jenny gave him a bigger hug than her father had got, and he licked her face in return. She loved the nights he visited them. This was the dog who’d saved her from Sykes, and she allowed him to come and go as he pleased. When Dodger was there, Jenny slept soundly.

Oliver rubbed against his matted fur. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just… I dunno. Needed somewhere to spend tha night.”

“Well, you know you’re always welcome here.”

“That means tha world to me, kid.” He flopped onto his favorite fluffy rug, and Oliver curled beside him. Any day when Dodger got to see this cat was automatically a good day.

He’d visited the Foxworth home many times that spring and summer. Whenever he was near Fifth Avenue, he’d bark at the front door till Winston let him in, then he’d run through the mansion and find Oliver. Inevitably, he would find Georgette and bother her — one time he’d peeped at her in a bubble bath and she’d screamed like a foghorn — but it was Mr. Foxworth he really enjoyed seeing. That’d been quite a surprise for Dodger.

They would sit on the sofa together, his head in David’s lap as he read the paper. “See this, boy? Stocks on our business — terrible, just terrible.” When they went up again, he rewarded himself with a bagel, and Dodger always got half of it.

The Mrs. always said he’d get mud on the carpet and sofa, but Mr. Foxworth said the dog reminded him of his working-class roots. They never bathed or collared him, for they knew he was a perpetual stray. That didn’t mean they hadn’t discussed it.

Together on Jenny’s bedroom rug, Oliver yawned and Dodger had to yawn, too. The cat first met the Company back in April, and in the months since, no one had visited him more than Dodger. Tito came every now and then to break up, make up, and break up again with Georgette, and Francis liked to admire the mansion’s artwork, but Dodger was a constant.

“Why’d things have to change?” the mutt sighed. “Ever since Fagin moved us to tha Bronx, he wants us to be normal dogs. Stay inside, eat tha kibble, no stealing. Maybe that’s safer, but I love tha streets. I love tha danger, tha excitement. And I hate tha Bronx.”

“Well, I’m not crazy about you loving danger.”

“Ah, y’know I can handle myself.” Dodger rolled over like he was playing dead. “It ain’t tha gang’s fault, really. I can’t be mad at them for wanting normal lives... But I don’t.”

“Nothing stays the same forever.” They drifted off to sleep, the concert of the city playing faintly for them. Dodger’s stomach made the best pillow. “Except one thing.”

“LaGuardia being trash?”

“Nope. It’s you being my big brother.”

“Absitively, kiddo. Absitively.”

* * *

Rita needed to clear her head. When she sat dwelling on every little thing that stressed her, she got the worst migraines, and right now the sight of an empty dog bed where a certain scruffy terrier mutt usually slept was setting her off.

She knew Tito, Francis, and Einstein could tell she had a headache — they were looking at her like a tea kettle about to boil over — but she wouldn’t be pitied. That wasn’t her style. 

So she’d told the gang she needed some fresh air, a nighttime stroll around the block, and she’d squeezed out the doggy door with some difficulty. Rita knew she was going out alone right after she’d lectured Dodger about it, but she was only going for a walk, not an adventure.

She couldn’t understand why Dodger disliked the Bronx so intensely. Sure, it was a bit rundown, but it wasn’t as packed as Manhattan and the people were friendlier. Rita passed kids playing basketball in a cracked court. Across the streets, a boy was spray-painting the side of a building. He was talented, and she hoped people appreciated his art.

Around the corner, she smelled another dog. Rita could tell it was an older female, no threat to her, and when she went into the next alleyway, she found her.

“Hey, girl,” Rita nosed up to her. “You all alone out here? It’s not safe.”

She was a scraggly terrier mutt, sandy-furred with brown spots here and there, elderly and exhausted and extremely underfed. Pity flooded Rita, and she didn’t care that this was a complete stranger, she had to help. Rita helped her stand as gently as possible.

“Yes… Thank ya, oh, thank ya,” the mutt coughed. Her fur was caked with mud and grease. “I don’t… have anywhere to go. I don’t know what to do.”

“Everything’s gonna be fine, sister. My friends and I live nearby. We’ll help you.”

The cold weather would soon be a death sentence, so Rita’s mind was made up. She walked her out of the alley, around the block, and towards Fagin’s apartment complex.

“My name is Rita. Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re safe now.”

“Thank ya so much.” She managed a smile. “I’m Annie.”


	3. "Movin' Out (Anthony's Song)"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annie is grateful for her new home, but everything falls apart when Dodger returns to the apartment. Furious, he leaves. Dodger reunites with old friends who left the Company before the movie: Charlie, Nancy, and Noah. He receives a warning.

Annie was slow to follow, but Rita never rushed her. She made sure the old dog took her time on the stairs, all the way up to the third floor, and showed her which doggy door was theirs. Annie found herself in a small but peaceful one-room apartment. True, it was a bit dingy, but to a dog who’d spent her life sleeping in alleys, it looked perfect.

Three other dogs were inside the apartment, three male dogs — a Chihuahua, a Bulldog, and a Great Dane — which disappointed her because she’d hoped Rita’s friends were all girls.

“Why, Rita, who on earth is this? A new friend?”

“Qué cojones, Rita? Whatcha bring her here for?”

The one who hadn’t swarmed her the moment she arrived was the gray Great Dane, and for that, she was grateful. He was an older dog, like her, content to sit in his chair and smile pleasantly. Annie liked him already.

Rita led her away from their stares to a doggy bed and blankets currently unused. “Here, sister. All yours.” She collapsed on the comfortable bed, then her stomach growled.

Rita must’ve heard because she brought her one of the food bowls from the kitchen.

“Oh, I can’t… Ya don’t got much as it is. I can’t impose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Our food is your food.” Rita didn’t relent until she ate. She nodded to her companions. “Guys, this is Annie. Annie, this is Tito, Francis, and Einstein. Consider us your new best friends.” She winked at the old mutt. “We’d never let a good dog starve.”

“Thank you all so much. I’ve never had friends before.”

Old Einstein hopped off the recliner and leaned down to look her eye to eye. He smiled wide. “It’s our pleasure.” She’d had run-ins with horrible big dogs, but this one felt different.

“I’m gonna like having another girl in the gang again. These boys drive me crazy.”

Annie laughed, gazing at Rita with pure admiration. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed for nothing — it was a wonderful feeling. Lying in the doggy bed, her paws on her stomach, Annie thought life couldn’t get more perfect. 

Warm and full, she fell asleep and didn’t wake until the late hours of the morning. Annie thought she’d open her eyes in an alleyway and realize Rita and her friends had all been a dream, but she was still in the apartment. Annie nearly cried with relief. Rita told her their owner was a poor man named Fagin who was often gone to work, but she promised her Fagin never turned away a dog and wouldn’t start with her. Everyone was happy to have her, Rita said.

She hadn’t considered the dog who’d stepped out yesterday.

“Get along, little doggies! The Dodge has returned.” As anticipated, Dodger returned to the apartment wearing black sunglasses he hadn’t had before. He wasn’t paying attention to who was in the room. “My day was too awesome, guys. I teased this Golden Retriever babe, then I stole a fat corn dog for breakfast and chilled in Central Park. It couldn’t get any — ”

He froze when he saw her. He lifted his sunglasses to make sure it was really her — and it wasn’t her smell or her looks that made him remember. It was her muddy brown eyes, identical to his own. His lips curled into an ugly snarl. “What are ya doing here?”

Annie gaped at him. “I don’t believe it… You’re alive.”

“No thanks to ya. Ya left me to freeze to death.”

“I know… and I’m so sorry. I promise I can explain.”

“I don’t want excuses, Momma.”

The skidding of tires, of slammed brakes, rang in his mind.

He’d gone full-on aggressive, back arched and fur bristled like he had when he’d put himself between Oliver and the Dobermans. But he wasn’t defending anyone this time. Rita had never seen him like this, so she threw herself between him and the old girl. “Whoa, whoa, hold the phone! This is your mother?” Looking at them both, Rita realized the resemblance. His fur was white and hers was sandy, but their build, their ears, their spots — it was uncanny.

“I wish she weren’t,” he spat. “She ditched me when I was a puppy.”

The Company fell silent. It was an understood rule amongst street dogs that you didn’t ask about each other’s pasts or parents — usually it wasn’t a pretty story. In New York, no one cared what you did yesterday. Everyone was running from something, and that was no one else’s business. The rest of the gang felt witness to a scene they had no right to see.

As for Dodger, he’d spent too long running from yesterday. When he was a pup, he used to dream that his mother would find him again, that she’d snuggle and lick him and say it was all a big misunderstanding. He’d given that dream up after a few weeks in his basement.

“So did ya stalk me? Track down ya long-lost son?”

“No, I… I wasn’t looking for ya.”

“Why is that not a surprise?

“I didn’t know ya survived. If I did, I would have.” Annie gazed at him wide-eyed, jaw trembling. Her ears were sunken, her tail between her legs. “Please, son, hear me out.”

“Don’t call me son. Ya gave that up when ya gave me up.” He marched decidedly around her, no longer aggressive but no less calm. “Go find someone else’s life to barge into.”

“But this is a miracle. Rita finding me, bringing me here to ya. Don’t ya see?” She laid down before him in submission. “New York is giving us a chance to make things right.”

“Why should I make things right? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Of course not, but if ya just let me explain — ”

“Ya said ya didn’t want me.”

“I did want ya,” she sniffed, laying her head on her legs. “But it was winter… there was no food. I was starving, and ya were starving… I ran out of milk. I knew that it was just a matter of time before ya…” Her voice became a whisper. “...I couldn’t stand to see that.”

The sound of muffled tears came from Tito and Francis, who held each other in distress. Einstein hated to see any dog upset. Rita frowned, unsure what to think or who to be mad at. “You told your own puppy you didn’t want him?” She tried to imagine.

“I only said that because I didn’t want ya to follow me. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry ain’t good enough,” he growled. “Ya didn't even give me a name.”

“I couldn’t,” she whimpered. “I couldn’t get attached.”

“Well, I’m Dodger now, no thanks to ya.”

“Dodger… That’s a good name.”

He could close his eyes and remember how it felt to huddle in an alley with nothing but newspaper to keep him warm. Other puppies had their mother’s body heat, but he got newspaper. Dodger had worked so hard to bury these feelings beneath a carefree attitude, to pretend he never worried and never cared, but she’d unearthed them all like a volcanic eruption.

“What I did that night was selfish, but please understand… I’ve lost pups before. I couldn’t go through that again.” Annie took a hesitant step towards him. “But now that we’re together again, I — I wanna make it right. I wanna show ya I care.”

Annie was a foot away from her son, and for a moment, she thought he was going to embrace her. She swore he moved closer to her for a split second but then backed off.

“I ain’t falling for this,” he muttered. “I want nothing to do with ya.”

All those nights alone. Cold and hungry. Fending for himself. A pup crying for his mother. Angry. Abandoned. His memories were volatile inside him.

“Ya don’t mean that. I know ya upset with me, but — ”

“Oh, I absitively posolutely mean that.”

The afternoon sun was streaming through the open spaces in the boarded windows, throwing rays of lights into their ugly little apartment. Dust was visible in the sunbeams. Rita thought it gave the reunion a mellow atmosphere. “Dodger baby, I get why you're angry, but don’t you think forgiving her would feel better?”

“We all do things we regret, old chap,” Francis added. “But forgiveness — ”

“Forgiveness? Ya guys serious?” He looked at them with such disgust, like they were moldy bagels in an alley. “Ya didn’t grow up alone in tha Bronx cause of her.” Now he stood resolute. “She ain’t staying here. I don’t want her here.”

“You want us to throw an old lady out on the streets? Really?”

“I’m tha president, ain’t I? It’s an executive order.”

“No way, José,” Tito barked. “That ain’t right.”

Einstein stood beside Annie firmly. “She needs our help.”

Dodger let their words sink in. They were all standing around his mother, a dog they didn’t even know. They were choosing a complete stranger over him, their leader, after they’d heard what she had done to him. He had been disappointed that they wanted to stay inside and not go about the city, but this was something else entirely.

He’d never truly been angry with the Company. They’d been friends for years, the best friends he’d ever had, but this was a line in the sand. The gang had crossed it.

“As long as she’s here,” he growled, “I won’t be.”

The Company gawked as he put his new sunglasses back on.

“What are you saying?” Rita frowned. “You’re quitting the gang?”

He shook his throbbing head. He’d thrown the sunglasses on so they wouldn’t see the panic in his eyes. “Yeah — No — Maybe. I dunno. I just can’t stay here. Not with her.” He marched to the doggy door he’d come through moments ago, head held high. He looked back at them with a snarl. “And I hate tha Bronx.”

He shoved through the doggy door and was gone.

Rita was surprised to find salty tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away, hoping the gang hadn’t noticed. No one spoke. No one knew what to say, or what had just happened. Annie hung her head, and it seemed she blamed herself for the whole mess. Einstein must have sensed this because he rubbed his head against hers for comfort.

“How long till he’s back, ya think?” Tito rolled his eyes, plopping back on the mattress beside Francis. “I give him a week. He’s all talk. Tener mala leche!”

“Dodger has been irritable before,” Francis mumbled, “but never like this.”

When Rita’s eyes were dry, she turned to face them. They needed her to be strong, as much as she wanted to fall apart. “You’re wrong, Tito.” Before, she thought she knew Dodger like she knew herself. Now, she couldn’t say. “I don’t think he’s coming back this time.”

* * *

He shivered as he raced down the sidewalk, hardly looking where he was going. After all this time, he still knew every block and alley of the Bronx. He had to get out.

Among the stray dogs and cats of New York City, he’d become known as the Artful Dodger for his stylish street savoir faire. That was the dog that a hundred others followed in the streets, interrupting traffic and singing his song. Every canine’s favorite scoundrel.

The Artful Dodger didn’t cry. What would his fans think?

“Get it together, man.” He had to leave this neighborhood, and fast.

So Dodger hopped on the back of a southbound taxi cab and climbed on the roof, surfing his problems away. Soon they’d crossed the Harlem River and left the northernmost borough behind. “I’m sorry, gang,” he muttered, looking past the riverside factories and warehouses. The Company was back there somewhere. “Why’d ya have to go and change?”

He jumped off the taxi on a sidewalk in Harlem. This neighborhood wasn’t much cleaner than the one he just left, but it was more musical. Kids who should’ve been in school — except that school was boring — partied in the streets, carrying massive boomboxes on their shoulders for the breakdancers to perform to. He was mesmerized by their moves.

Sunglasses on, the Artful Dodger joined in the performance, shaking his tail and jumping onto a breakdancer’s shoulders for an unrehearsed combo. He barked when the song ended. The kids cheered, scratched his head, and threw him beef jerky.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that tha Artful Dodger?”

A dog barked at him across the street, and Dodger’s eyes lit up.

“Charlie?” He laughed, raising his sunglasses. “What are ya doing here?”

“Me? I live in tha Bronx,” she chuckled. “I oughta be asking ya that.”

His old friend was a Collie mix, black-and-white fur and a self-satisfied sneer that Dodger knew too well. She had a raspy voice like engine exhaust and brown eyes that radiated mischief. Her left ear was white, her right black, and both stood happily to see him. Most dogs assumed she was a guy, and Charlie never bothered correcting them.

She circled him and sniffed his nose, his side, and his rear. “Haven’t seen ya in ages, man! Whatcha been up to?” she asked. “Practicing ya dance moves?”

“I’ve been… around, I guess. Living with tha Company, but things got complicated.”

“Ah, tha old gang! Ya guys still live in that boat by tha Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Nah, Fagin moved us to tha Bronx and I hate it, man.”

He told Charlie about the crummy new apartment and how to find it — east of Yankee Stadium in an area called Melrose, across the street from the Latino liquor store, third floor with the doggy door — in case their old friend wanted to visit. Dodger suspected she might when she asked, “Hey, and just between ya and me… is Rita still in tha gang?”

“Ha! Ya naughty girl.” He grinned. “She sure is. Might like to see ya.”

“I might like to see her.” Charlie smiled like a fool.

Dodger didn’t explain that he’d been distant from the gang ever since they decided to be normal house dogs, and he certainly didn’t delve into the situation with his mother. Dodger didn’t want to think about all that anymore. He wanted to catch up with his friend — no worries, no cares, and no thoughts of anything stressful. He was officially done with stress.

“Ah man, have I got a surprise for ya…” Charlie led him through the graffitied streets of Harlem. Dodger didn’t know them well, but she certainly did.

They passed rows of apartments that had jack-o-lanterns on the porch steps. Shops had hung plastic spiders and bats from phony cobwebs in their windows. One of those mysterious Halloween stores had popped up on the corner, which in a few days would vanish until next year. Dodger hadn’t realized the monstrous holiday was so soon.

“Right over here is where we live.” Charlie nodded to a gloomy-looking stairwell that led to a subway station, only there was yellow caution tape over the entrance.

“Who’s we?” Dodger ducked under the tape, following her downstairs.

The abandoned station was dimly-lit by flickering lights, which had dead bugs trapped in them. The station was damp and gray, concrete pillars and walls tagged with graffiti, with some benches that looked to be homes for the homeless. There was newspaper everywhere and faded wall posters. Charlie led him to the end furthest from the homeless folks’ benches.

Lying there on moth-eaten coats and blankets were two dogs he hadn’t seen in a lifetime. “Noah! Nancy! Great to see ya. I didn’t know tha three of ya still hung out.”

Noah was much as Dodger remembered, a large purebred Bullmastiff with dark gray fur and a patch of white on his underbelly. He had a scrunched-up face as if someone had deliberately punched it in. His floppy cheeks were a lighter gray, as were his legs. He had the friendliest smile of any dog with that many scars. “What took ya, buddy?”

“Life took me.” He sniffed noses with his old friend. “Bad excuse, right?”

“Nah, we understand.” The other old face was Nancy, a mixed-breed a bit like a Spaniel, with mud caked in her yellow fur and floppy golden ears. She never spoke much to Dodger back in the day, but that was because she never spoke much to anyone. She had a sweet face, a flower growing through cracks in the pavement. “Life gets away from ya.”

Dodger couldn’t stop staring at the three of them. He could never express how happy he was that they’d reunited. “Ah geez, how many months has it been, guys? 

“Since we left tha Company?” Charlie mused. “I dunno… Nine? Ten?”

“It was tha first night Sykes came,” Noah reminded them.

What a terrible night that had been. Back on the houseboat in late January, they’d been partying on the houseboat, watching TV, snacking on stolen pretzels — the entire gang, all eight of them — when Fagin stumbled down the stairs and fell on the floor. At first they thought he was drunk, then they realized he’d been pushed. “What a dump,” Bill Sykes had said.

They’d been introduced to Roscoe and DeSoto. They’d tried to protect Fagin when the gangster began to beat him, but the poor man begged them not to interfere. They’d learned how much debt Fagin was really in that night, how much he was asking of them.

Which was simply too much for Charlie, Nancy, and Noah to keep living there.

“Us three have been down here ever since,” Nancy said.

“Fagin made his bed,” Noah sighed. “We didn’t wanna lie in it.”

“Ya not still mad at us, are ya?” Charlie asked trepidly.

“Mad at ya?” Dodger thought back to that night. He remembered saying some unkind words to his friends, and now he longed to take them back. “No, course not. Ya didn’t wanna end up as Doberman chow. I can’t fault ya for that, and I’m sorry I did back then.”

The three of them wagged their tails to hear that.

“Actually, I, uh… kinda sorta just left tha Company myself.”

That raised their eyebrows. There was no sound in the abandoned subway station but the buzzing of the broken light and the footsteps of people passing above ground. 

“Ya left them? Like forever?” Charlie frowned.

“I ain’t sure,” Dodger admitted. “They’re in tha Bronx now, and I can’t live in tha Bronx. Too many memories.” There was so much that he’d wanted to catch up with them on, so many stories to share and triumphs to relieve, that he was ashamed to have brought up his woes. He stretched and walked around the rundown station. “Least ya guys got a nice place.”

“Sure do. Roomy, private, and away from humans. Those homeless fellas never bother us.” Charlie glanced at the other end of the platform where they slept.

“If ya quit tha Company, why not join us full-time?” Noah suggested.

“Yeah! Ya know what they say: Three’s a crowd, four’s a gang.”

“I dunno, guys... I ain’t much of a joiner.”

“Just think about it,” Noah said with his friendly, familiar grin.

The dogs made him agree to at least spend the night in the subway station with them, just to see how he liked it. They assured him trains hadn’t run on the tracks in over a year. Dodger couldn’t say no to hanging out with them. He couldn’t let the whole day be bad.

They went above ground to steal some dinner, and with Dodger’s skills, they had an entire pepperoni pizza to themselves, fresh from the back of a delivery bike. They ran the streets of Harlem, howling like wild dogs, eager to stretch their legs. When they returned to the station, they reminisced about the good old days. “Remember that time we had a wrestling tournament on tha boat?” They all laughed, and Dodger and Noah demonstrated some moves. “How about when Frankie made us act in his play?” That’d been a cringeworthy performance.

When the stories ran out, they called it a night. The end of October was chilly, so the dogs gathered as many newspapers and cardboard as they could find for their beds. A few homeless men had appeared, but like Charlie said, they were no bother.

Somehow Nancy wound up beside him, and when the others were asleep, she whispered to him, “I’m glad ya came. I missed ya.” Nancy hadn’t said much to him all day, but Dodger knew that didn’t mean she disliked him. That was just her way.

Her eyes said more than words ever could.

“I missed ya, too.” They’d shared something on the houseboat, each time he’d caught her staring at him and she’d looked away. A blush, a secret smile. “I miss everything.”

Sometimes Dodger wished he could freeze all of New York in time.

* * *

He’d slept in so many places recently that when his internal clock told him it was morning, Dodger wasn’t sure where he was at first. He usually chose alleys, not subway stations. Then he saw Nancy and Charlie beside him and remembered yesterday.

Dodger tiptoed across the platform so he wouldn’t wake the girls. An early morning walk sounded nice, so up the stairs he went. Noah the Bullmastiff was sitting on the top step.

“Morning, buddy.” He nodded for Dodger to join him under the caution tape.

“Why’d ya get up so early?” He sat beside Noah. “Patrol tha block?”

“Something like that. I guess ya heading out now, huh?”

“I’ll wait till tha girls wake up and say bye.”

“Haven’t changed ya mind about joining us then?”

“I have not. But I’ll visit again for sure.”

They turned their eyes to the city. The sun was just beginning to rise, throwing orange light over the building tops. Dodger knew the morning rush would start soon. People would catch the subway and head to work downtown — not from their station, of course — and the excitement always made his tail wag. Noah didn’t look as thrilled.

“I know ya think tha Company is lame for staying inside like ordinary pets, but nowadays… they may be safer indoors. These streets are getting dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than usual, right?”

Noah grew quiet. “Have ya ever heard of tha Purebreds?”

“What, like purebred dogs? Tha kennel club set?”

“These ain’t no kennel dogs.” He licked a scar on his front leg — not because it hurt, just out of habit. “Tha Purebreds are a gang, but they ain’t a family like the Company. They’ve been claiming territory in Lower Manhattan, starting at tha Battery. Once they stake out their turf, they don’t let any other street dog eat or sleep there… unless they’re purebred.”

“That’s so stupid. Why do they care about anyone’s breed?”

“I dunno, but they say mutts are inferior. So when they catch a mixed-breed on their territory…” Noah lowered his voice, “...one less mongrel in New York City.”

“I don’t believe it. That sounds like an urban legend.”

“I’m telling ya, this ain’t like alligators in tha sewers.”

“Hey, there really are gators down there.”

They sat at the top of the steps watching the city living and breathing before them. Cars sped past fuming from their exhaust pipes, which mixed with the steam from the street vents and people’s breath visible in the cold. Dodger knew this city inside and out. Sure it was dangerous, but it’d always been. Streetlife wasn’t for the faint of heart.

Dog gangs were nothing new. Strays ran in packs for protection, claiming this neighborhood or that, marking all the fire hydrants and street lamps. There was always an alpha and his lackeys. The more violent gangs sometimes tried to expand their turf, but they never got far — the bigger the territory, the harder to keep.

“Just be careful,” Noah warned. “Tha city is changing fast.”


	4. "Allentown"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Rottweiler named Skippy Dawg has a conscience. Rita gets some air and runs into Charlie, a flirtatious female friend, and Oliver meets a pretty stray cat. On Halloween night, Dodger goes to Lower Manhattan to prove the Purebreds are no threat.

The lower city was Skyscraper Town. The steel-and-concrete titans that rose thousands of feet above the pavement were a monument to human ingenuity. Poor construction workers in greasy overalls had once sat on miles-high frames eating lunch, praying they didn’t fall, but they didn’t own the fruit of their labors. These towers belonged to the wealthy.

They marked the territory of elite dogs who didn’t have a drop of mongrel blood in their veins. The skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan belonged to the Purebreds.

Night was brighter than day in the city, illuminated by a million windows and bright street lamps, which never flickered downtown. It would be Halloween soon, which meant the streets would fill with monsters. Some had arrived early.

“Aaah!” cried a young dog with scruffy brown fur, floppy ears, and a hairbrush tail. No distinguishable breed. “I’m going, I’m going!” He ran down the pavement, barreling under people’s legs. He turned into an alley with a chain-link fence.

The dog heard barking behind him, the rush of paws on pavement. He leapt onto a trash can and bounded over the fence, falling to the other side. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Then they appeared. Blocking the exit of the other side of the alley, the side he’d just fallen into, were three snarling monsters. The dog tried to climb the fence, but it was no use; there was no crate or bin to jump on. His pursuers had him cornered.

“I’ll leave ya turf — I’ll go uptown — Just let me go, please!”

The lead attacker was a German Shepherd, his body tawny-brown with black on his muzzle, legs, and back. Despite his pink scars and messy fur, there was no mistaking his pedigree. “Let ya go? With no punishment?” His left ear was completely torn off. It looked like an old wound. “Now what would that do to our reputation?”

The second dog was also a purebred, a Pit Bull with tan-and-white fur and a blocky head too large for his body. He pondered the question. “Uhhh… dogs would say we was nice?”

The Shepherd rolled his eyes. “It was rhetorical, Club! Good grief.”

“How can grief be good, Razor?” the Pit Bull frowned.

“Stop talking and do what ya good at.”

The Pit Bull’s head made him look lopsided, but a big head came with big teeth. He closed in, snarling like a hungry wolf. The young dog fell to the floor, tail and ears down, whimpering. “If ya won’t let me go, then I’ll — I’ll join ya gang! Please!”

Razor had a biting laugh. “Why would we let a mongrel join tha Purebreds?”

The brown mutt shut his eyes, praying it’d be over quickly.

“That’s enough, Razor!” the third dog among them barked. “Ya made ya point.” He had a voice like bricks smashing into gravel that made the Pit Bull and Shepherd freeze. This dog was an extremely large, extremely ferocious Rottweiler with the muscles of a purebred. There was a black spiked collar around his neck and nasty battle scars on his body. The one that stood out the most was jagged, like someone had taken a serrated knife to his flank.

“What do ya think ya doing, Skippy Dawg?” Razor turned towards him.

“What does it look like?” he growled. “I’m stopping ya.”

Years ago, the Rottweiler had been named Skipper, but since hitting the streets he’d gone by Skippy Dawg. He’d run with the Purebreds for weeks now, but that was all over tonight. He shoved past his gangmates to stand in front of the brown mutt, who gazed at him like he was the statue of Balto the heroic sled dog in Central Park.

“Ya want to take me on?” Skippy Dawg laughed. “I eat dogs like ya for breakfast.”

Club and Razor growled but knew better than to challenge him. Their muscles were young compared to his. “This means ya outta tha Purebreds for good, traitor!”

“Yeah, that’s tha idea. Do ya need a letter of resignation?”

The Pit Bull and Shepherd spat at his paws but didn’t attack. They left the alley, and Skippy Dawg didn’t take his eyes off them until they were gone. He knew they’d tell the leader of the Purebreds what he’d done. He didn’t care. He’d fight them all if he had to.

He escorted the brown mutt out of the lower city. They were safe once they passed New York City Hall on Chambers Street — the Purebreds hadn’t claimed much territory yet, but they’d been gaining members for weeks, plotting their takeover. Skippy knew it wouldn’t be long before they started pushing farther up the city. They stopped in Columbus Park to rest. 

“Tell every mutt ya meet to get as far north as they can.”

* * *

Rita’s headache hadn’t improved much since the fight.

The Company had tried to pretend like everything was normal. Tito had cranked up his Latino tunes, Francis had fawned over paintings displayed in a Metropolitan museum brochure, and she’d listened to Whitney Houston when she could steal the radio from Tito. 

Einstein had been reassuring Annie that the conflict wasn’t her fault. She would cry and say she never should’ve come, and the Great Dane would tell her that was silly talk.

The hardest night had been when Fagin came back to the apartment and found that Dodger had been gone two whole days. “Did something happen to him, fellas?” he asked. Their eyes fell, unsure how to tell him. “He’s been gone before… maybe he’ll be back, huh?”

Fagin sat on the patchwork couch, holding a Brooklyn Dodgers cap in his hands.

One evening when their old man looked particularly miserable, Rita couldn’t stand the guilt anymore. She licked Fagin’s hand, he scratched her head, and she made for the doggy door. “I just need some air, guys. Be back soon.” Then she disappeared.

Rita felt bad for dipping, but it was hard to get alone time in a one-room apartment.

She strolled down the block, intending to just walk a few streets then come back to the complex, but the night was pleasant for late October and she went farther than she meant to. Rita passed a clump of weeds growing in the sidewalk, then she smelled them.

She paused. Rita knew that canine scent. It wasn’t Dodger, but it was a former member of the Company who’d left them months ago on the first night Sykes threatened Fagin.

Rita followed the scent around the block, tracing it to a fenced-in basketball court. She slipped through a hole in the chain-link fence and ambled onto the asphalt. “Charlie?”

Kicking and headbutting a scratched-up basketball was that familiar face.

“Rita!” The black-and-white, short-furred Collie laughed. “Long time no see, girl!”

“Where ya been, Charlie?” Rita couldn’t believe this reunion.

“In Harlem. It’s been me, Nancy, and Noah for a couple months now. We’re in an abandoned subway station,” the raspy girl said. “Ya live around here, don’t ya?”

“Sure do, but how do ya know that?” Rita frowned.

“Dodger told us. I ran into him in Harlem, and he hung out with us.”

Rita bounced the basketball so she wouldn’t have to respond right away. She headbutted it against the brick wall, satisfied with its bounce, but she couldn’t leave Charlie hanging. “So he told you what happened… He’s being difficult right now. Didn’t say that, did he?”

“Nah, but I kinda figured,” Charlie chuckled. She headbutted the ball. “I don’t know any details, but I don’t want to. Ya guys just need some time to breathe.”

“Yeah, maybe… So what are ya doing here? Did you come looking for us?”

“Not them.” The Collie grinned mischievously. “Just ya.”

“Aww, Charlie… you’re sweet, but it’s been such a long time.”

“And somehow ya got more beautiful. What’s ya secret?”

Rita rolled her eyes but smiled. “I don’t need you to tell me I’m beautiful.”

“I know ya don’t” she said, beaming, “but let me tell ya anyways.”

The Saluki and the Collie kicked the basketball around a bit longer, then they left the court and crossed the white-striped walkway to the other side of the street. The Bronx wasn’t a bad neighborhood by any means, if you knew how to take care of yourself. It wasn’t as congested as Manhattan, and Rita appreciated that. They goofed around, joking about stunts they’d pulled when they were all in the Company together, laughing at the old days.

Charlie and Rita strolled the streets for a bit, passing tossed-away newspapers and crushed Coke cans that littered the sidewalks. Rita noticed that her old friend liked to walk pretty close to her, which made her tremble. But Rita never let nerves get the best of her.

She hated to admit that the Collie had a charm about her, from her self-confident grin to her elephant gait. Charlie was such a boisterous gal, the furthest thing from snobby show dogs like Georgette. Still, she was snobby in her own way. Rita rolled her eyes often.

Then Charlie dropped the cheap pick-up lines. They saw a stray dog across the street, a mutt by the looks of it, who seemed nervous. Charlie cleared her throat.

“Rita, babe… I gotta warn ya. There’s a new gang in town… the Purebreds,” she whispered. Rita wished she’d go back to the flirtations, for now she sounded scared. “I heard from Noah — ya remember Noah, right? — that they’re taking over Lower Manhattan.”

“Seriously?” Rita gasped. “But how far are they gonna get, honestly?”

“No one really knows,” Charlie sighed. “But they’ve got Noah scared, and he ain’t never scared without reason. Apparently the Purebreds hate any dog who’s a mixed-breed.”

“They hate mutts?” Rita frowned. “But what does breed matter?”

“I dunno, but it matters to them.” Charlie looked at herself in a puddle off the sidewalk. Her ears drooped sadly. “They’re gonna know I’m not pure Collie… Man, ya lucky, babe. Ya got pure Saluki blood, anyone can see that.”

“I don’t care about being purebred,” she protested.

“I know ya don’t,” Charlie said. “But I’m glad. It means ya safe.”

“More stress.” Rita shook her head in frustration. “The last thing I need. Thanks for warning me, but we’re in the Bronx… we’ve gotta be safe, right?” Neither of them answered. “I’ve just been super stressed since the fight with Dodger. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one in the Company with any sense.”

“That’s cause I left,” Charlie chuckled. But her words hung heavy. She cleared her throat again. “I don’t know what to tell ya, babe, wish I did… I just hope us hanging out helped ya de-stress a little. I wish we could hang out more often.”

“Thanks, girl. I do feel better… but I’ve gotta get back. The Company may be stressful, but they’d be lost without me. Time to go home.”

The two dogs had to part, and it was harder than Rita had anticipated. She didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but Rita wasn’t sure if inviting her back to the apartment was the best idea. Charlie, Noah, and Nancy had left them when the mobster started pressuring Fagin. She feared the rest of the gang would resent them, even if it’d been ten months ago.

So as much as it pained Rita, she didn’t invite Charlie to return with her. And she didn’t want to give her the wrong idea, to hurt her feelings. Charlie was an obvious flirt, and Rita was flattered, but she just wasn’t sure. “But let’s hang out again, okay?”

“Sounds like a second date,” Charlie said, wagging her eyebrows.

Rita rolled her eyes for the millionth time that evening. 

* * *

If you cut from the Upper West Side across Central Park, you would come out on affluent Fifth Avenue, and if you ventured up past the Metropolitan, you would come upon a grand mansion on the corner of East 94th Street. This townhouse — picturesque flower beds below numerous fancy windows, an enclosed patio space in the back, a fire escape on the side — was home to one of New York’s many wealthy families, the Foxworths.

A redheaded eight-and-a-half year old named Jennifer sat on her family’s living room sofa, her head on a silk pillow. She was meant to be studying, but she was distracted by an orange-furred cat on the windowsill. His blue collar and golden name tag read OLIVER.

The young cat pounced at spots of light, determined to catch one. Jenny laughed when he fell off the windowsill. “Oliver, you silly goose!” She leapt off the couch to pet him.

“Jenny, aren’t you supposed to be studying?” Her mother appeared around the corner.

“I have studied.” The girl shrugged. She held Oliver in her arms.

“Oh, you’re all done.” Her mom smiled. “What’s the capital of Texas?”

Jenny scratched her head. “Err… Dallas, isn’t it?”

“And what’s the capital of California?”

“Los Angeles, that’s easy… No? Is it San Francisco?”

“Better keep studying,” Mrs. Foxworth said, kissing her on the head and walking her back to her U.S. geography textbook. “Why not let Oliver out on the patio?”

“Is it safe?” Jenny frowned. “I don’t want him to get out.”

“It’s too high for him to jump,” her mother reassured her. So they went down the hallway and out back to the enclosed patio, which was indeed very high-walled. There were more flowers back here, a garden shed, and a glass table and chairs.

Oliver loved being outside, though sunny pillows in the library or the fuzzy green table in the billard room were just as good. But he loved to smell the fresh air, to jump after a bird, and to stretch his legs. They left the door cracked for him to come back in.

He’d just curled up on the table, content to nap in the afternoon sun, when he heard a sound. “Hello? Who’s there?” He glanced around but didn’t smell anyone.

That’s because she was upwind of him. He heard her move and looked up.

“Hey there, house kitty,” she said dryly. She’d made herself comfortable atop the wall.

She was a calico cat with a beautiful mix of white, orange, and black fur and emerald eyes. Her fur was messy and matted, clearly the coat of a stray. Since he’d left his brothers and sisters in that cardboard box, this was the first fellow feline he’d encountered.

“Hello,” he said politely. “What are you doing up there?”

“Sunbathing. Same as you,” she said curtly. She gave an amused smile.

“It’s a great day for that,” he meowed sheepishly. “I’m Oliver. What’s your name?”

“Hmm. I don’t know.” She shut her eyes. “Never had one.”

“Oh. That’s sad.” Oliver frowned, but then his owner returned to the patio.

Jenny had heard Oliver mewing and wanted to see what the commotion was about. She picked him up protectively, then realized the stray cat wasn’t going to hurt him. “Have you made a friend?” She gazed at the calico. Jenny had expected the stray to run when she appeared, but she didn’t. “She’s awfully pretty. You’re such a charmer, Oliver.”

The redheaded girl stepped closer to the stray, who still didn’t flee. Either she was very brave, or she’d been around humans before. Jenny didn’t want to scare her, so she approached gently. “I don’t see a collar.” She hummed, thinking. “A pretty girl needs a pretty name, don’t you think? Why don’t we call you… Adena?”

The calico rolled over to show her belly, nonchalant to the new name.

“She seems sweet, Oliver,” Jenny giggled. “I’ll bet she’s hungry. I bet you are, too!”

She set her cat down and ran back inside to get two cans of cat food — her parents had informed her that she couldn’t continue feeding Oliver her specialty blend of Cocoa Krispies and whipped cream — and Oliver was alone with her again.

“Jenny’s really nice. You should come down…” He grinned. “...Adena.”

“That’s a nice name. I’ll keep it.” She stretched, paws out and backside raised.

Adena didn’t come down but walked around the wall, staring down at him curiously. “Why do you stay inside all the time? Why don’t you explore the city?”

“I’m not supposed to. New York is dangerous. I was a stray once, too.”

“Oh… I didn’t realize.” Her smile vanished. “I’m glad you found a home.”

“I love the Foxworths. Even their poodle is nice sometimes.” Oliver’s hazel eyes were fixed on her green ones. “You know, I bet if you wanted a nice home…”

“Not my style,” she said quickly. Adena leapt down from the wall, sliding down a drain to the sidewalk. He jumped off the table. They were separated by the patio wall, only seeing each other through the spacing in the brick. It was too small for either to get through. “But you should come out with me sometime. We could have fun.”

“In the city? I don’t know…” Oliver grinned. “Maybe.”

“Maybe means yes,” Adena giggled. “I’ll look forward to it, Ollie.”

She reached through the spacing in the wall to lick his nose. He blushed and pulled away. When he looked back, Adena had disappeared, but he smelled her scent. It was exciting, the smell of dirt and gas mixed with a natural sweetness, a warm femininity. 

He’d remember her scent. When Jenny returned with the cat food, Adena was nowhere to be seen, so Oliver had to eat his meal alone. Jenny was disappointed but hoped she’d come back to their back patio soon. So did Oliver. He’d never seen a cat as pretty as Adena.

* * *

As well-intentioned as his old friend Noah had been by warning him about the Purebreds, he’d done more harm than good. Dodger was the kind of dog who, when told not to do something, immediately did whatever he was told not to do. Defiance was in his blood.

That was why on Halloween night, while the city’s children were running around dressed as ghosts and goblins and ringing their neighbors’ doorbells for candy, Dodger was heading straight for Lower Manhattan. He’d prove there was no threat.

“Pure-blooded dogs taking territory,” he laughed, riding atop a car heading downtown. “What a stupid idea. Ain’t no reason to be scared.”

The night was cold, chilled by the late fall air and the end of warm days, but Dodger’s blood pumped with anticipation. His ride passed the columns of St. Peter’s and he knew he was far downtown. Dodger jumped off the roof onto the sidewalk.

The mutt knew where he was going without having to look — these New York streets were his home. He’d been running the lower city longer than any of these so-called Purebreds, if they even existed. Dodger had a better chance of running into alligators.

He’d go straight to Battery Park, as far south as you could go in NYC. 

Dodger’s stomach rumbled, and with no street vendors in sight, he decided to sniff out a snack in the nearest alleyway. There were crowds of children going door to door. One was a toilet-paper mummy, one was Cleopatra, one was a feral werewolf, and one boy was Superman, cape and all, with a hair curl that would make Christopher Reeve proud. They dropped a caramel apple, but the dog knew better than to eat it — he’d had a bad experience with one as a pup, gluing his mouth shut — so he began digging in the trash bags of the alley. Not exactly appetizing, but trash bags meant food scraps, especially behind a restaurant.

The red-scarfed mutt had just torn open a bag when he jumped at a growl.

“Take yer nose outta our food, ya lousy mixed-breed.”

The demand came from two enormous, growling dogs — a terrifying German Shepherd with a scarred face and only one ear, and a Pit Bull who made up what he lacked in smarts with scares — who looked ready to attack Dodger then and there.

Now, Dodger may have been beaten by Roscoe and DeSoto when he was defending Fagin, but every defeat made his fighting sharper, savager. He curled back his lips.

“Your food? Sorry, didn’t see tha name tags on tha trash bags.”

“Oh, a wise guy?” The Pit Bull narrowed his eyes. “Now I’m mad.”

“Tha wisest guy in all of New York City. My city, I might add.”

“Ya city? See, that’s funny…” the German Shepherd began prowling around him in a circle. “...cause this part of New York belongs to tha Purebreds now. It’s our turf.”

Dodger regarded them with a cocky smile and a slight tilt of the head, giving him the appearance of being not-all-that-interested. “Ah, do ya and ya friends think ya a tough gang just cause of ya fancy pedigrees? Ooh, purebreds, I’m so scared.”

“Hold up,” the Shepherd growled. He stopped the Pit Bull from coming closer, because now he was gazing intently at Dodger. Something sparked in his eyes. “I remember ya.” Now his even temper went out the window and he snarled like he was rabid. “Ya tore my ear.”

His own memory jogged. Suddenly Dodger was transported to a Bronx alleyway on a cold, snowy night — the terrible night his mother left him — where he won his first fight.

“I’d almost forgotten.” Dodger sneered. “Ya look prettier this way.”

“Didn’t think I’d ever meet ya again, but I’m glad. Now I can pay ya back.”

Just as the Shepherd was about to pounce, just as Dodger was bracing himself to meet the attack and go for his enemy’s throat if able, the Pit Bull gasped. “Wait! He has a red scarf.”

His partner rolled his eyes. “Well done, Club. Ya ain’t colorblind after all.”

“But Razor, ain’t tha boss looking for a brown-and-white mutt in a red scarf?”

The Shepherd growled. “Ya think I didn’t know that? Of course I knew that.” He pulled out of his attack stance to smack his partner’s face. “Who’s tha brains of this operation?”

Club glanced at the skyscrapers. “Uh… Wall Street, I think.”

Razor groaned, then scowled at Dodger. “It’s ya lucky day, mutt. Just so happens tha leader of tha Purebreds has a personal bone to pick with ya.”

Dodger snickered. “I assumed ya were tha leader. Since ya so scary.”

“Well, ya know what they say about assuming.” Razor had him cornered in the alley, and Dodger didn’t like his chances taking on both of them. He thought again of his fight with Sykes’ Dobermans. He wasn’t escaping in one piece, but he didn’t want to. Dodger would meet their leader face-to-face, whoever claimed to be in charge of this wannabe gang, because that was all these Purebreds were. Some wannabe gang who thought they were tough cookies.

So Dodger willingly accompanied them farther into Lower Manhattan. They flanked him on either side, and he didn’t try to run. As they drew deeper into downtown, the steel buildings loomed taller overhead, more fearsome against the night sky.

As they approached the southernmost part of Manhattan, he saw more and more dogs around them. Many of them were brutes, giant Greyhounds built to run and Siberian Huskies who could pull a sled. He saw a Bull Terrier with a rat face, a brown-coated Boxer, and a black Cane Corso. He realized with a shock that these were indeed all purebreds. They roamed the alleys, the sidewalks, ducking around pedestrians if not outright scaring them off.

When they neared the park, Razor sneered at him. “Know why we chose tha Battery as our home base? Know what battery is?”

“Yeah, yeah, batteries give ya power. Very clever.”

“Not just power. Battery also means beating tha living daylights outta ya.”

The park was fairly large, an expanse of grass and concrete walkways with trees, bushes, and benches scattered about. There were open areas where he could see surrounding dogs, and there were hidden parts where more could’ve been hiding.

There were more dogs than Dodger had anticipated. He counted a dozen, two dozen, then there were more than a dog could count. He didn’t see a single mongrel among them, no one with scruffy fur, mixed traits, or brown spots — except himself, of course.

His heart was pounding faster than he preferred. “Alright, Razor, this is far enough. Where’s ya leader?” That only made the Shepherd laugh cruelly.

“Some dogs just have no patience.” They had stopped amid a congregation of dogs, and Dodger was completely surrounded. He was starting to think running headfirst into Lower Manhattan, disregarding Noah’s words, had been a bad idea.

Then a new dog emerged from the waterfront walkway, and from the way the others parted for him, his authority was clear. He was a monstrously-tall, muscular dog with short, pitch-black fur, undercut by solid brown on his muzzle, legs, and broad chest. His ears were uncropped and fell down, and his tail hadn’t been cut short. He wasn’t from a breeder, that much was obvious from his dirty, unkempt fur, but it did little to diminish his frightful appearance. He was clearly a purebred Doberman.

But what made the leader of the Purebreds truly frightening was the overwhelming familiarity, the recognition in Dodger’s eyes, the dread welling in his chest. A long-forgotten nightmare come back to haunt him.

It was said that on Halloween night, the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Ghosts, goblins, and malicious spirits crossed over and spread fear. Worst of all was the ghost of an enemy who returned to seek vengeance.

The Doberman narrowed his gleaming yellow eyes and grinned, displaying rows of shark teeth. “Hello, Dodger… My name is Ruscoe. I believe you knew my father.”


	5. "We Didn't Start the Fire"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dodger meets Ruscoe, leader of the Purebreds and son of the late Roscoe. The gang chases him to the Brooklyn Bridge and he falls into the East River. He survives the water and limps to the Foxworths for help. They make a life-changing decision.

“Ruscoe? Ya can’t be — Ya mean ya old man was — ”

“Roscoe, yes. Didn’t my name give it away?” The Doberman cocked his head, grinning wickedly. All of the surrounding dogs howled with laughter.

It was well past midnight, and the shadows looming behind every bush and tree turned Battery Park into a nightmarish landscape. There were no humans in sight, no secret affairs or drug dealers. Perhaps the hellhounds of Halloween had scared them away: a pack of canine brutes who had made the Battery their territory. The starting point, that was.

Dodger’s legs began to shake; his tail drooped. Everything about Ruscoe, from his pointed nose to the flecks on his muzzle, looked nearly identical to his father. The mirror image of a face Dodger thought he’d never see again outside of his nightmares.

“You look nervous.” Ruscoe nodded politely. “I believe Club said I was looking for you.”

“How — How are ya tha Purebreds’ leader? When did ya — ”

“When did I what? Happen?” He laughed deep and slow. Ruscoe moved closer to him, and his gang followed suit. “Where to begin… My father and my uncle were top-notch Dobermans, purebred pedigrees, so of course Sykes bred them. The pups Roscoe and DeSoto fathered fetched a high price. Some of us went to more breeders, some to the shows, but me? I went underground. I was in the fighting ring.” Ruscoe’s sneer had disappeared. “I got real good in those fights. I got so good, I started to wonder what I was doing there.”

“So ya busted out? Escaped tha humans?” Dodger guessed.

“Turns out dogs put up a better fight than men,” he chuckled. “I learned early on that it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and a dog like me deserved to be giving orders, not taking them. That’s why I started the Purebreds. A gang of New York’s finest.”

“What have ya got against mutts? What did we ever do to ya?”

At this question, Ruscoe nodded to some of his lackeys to step forward, including Club and Razor. Dodger thought they were going to attack him and he braced himself, but they stood in a row with stone-cold composure. They all had a large stature.

Ruscoe marched in front of them with unquestioned authority. “Look at these canines, Dodger. Razor is a pure German Shepherd. Look at his coat, the colors. Perfect, isn’t he? Well, except for his ear. I heard that was your fault.” He moved on to the other dogs, inspecting them like a drill sergeant. “Club has the proper build, the right jaw for a Pit Bull. Not a drop of dirty blood in his veins.” After them was a Boxer with his signature brown fur, a Siberian Husky perfect for the snow, and a Greyhound that stood above them all. All five were the ideal of their breeds. Then Ruscoe turned to Dodger.

“Compare them to yourself. Your fur is scraggly, white here and gray there. Are those natural brown spots or mud? And look at your build, your tail, your ears. I mean, I guess you’re a terrier, but what kind? Jack Russell? Parson?” He laughed cruelly, walking in circles around him. His followers laughed in sync. “You’re a mess.”

Dodger had never been ashamed of his breeding — rather, his lack of — but surrounded by these pure breeds, listening to their laughter, a shadow of doubt grew inside him. His cheeks flushed. He tucked his tail between his legs.

Shame was an oil spill in a body of water. All it took was one crack, one leak, for the blackness to billow and cloud and contaminate the entire gulf.

“A mutt is the result of two dogs who never should've mixed. It’s a black mark in the bloodline. It shouldn’t exist.” He towered in front of Dodger, glaring at him like he was a beetle to be crushed beneath a boot. “And you’re the biggest mutt of them all.”

“Is that why ya after me? Cause I’m a mutt?”

“That’s one reason, but you’re missing the obvious.”

His mind flashed the last memory he had of Ruscoe’s father, the night they’d rescued Jenny from the clutches of Bill Sykes. He remembered the chase through the subway tunnel, Fagin’s motorbike fleeing from a limousine on the train tracks. Dodger had leapt on the limo and had a rematch with Roscoe and DeSoto, and the Dobermans proved that the subway’s _DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE ON TRACKS_ signs weren’t for nothing. It’d taken weeks to forget the smell of singed dog fur and get their screams out of his head.

“So it’s revenge.” Dodger growled at the giant, unwise as it was. “Well, lemme tell ya, Junior, ya father and uncle got what was coming to them!”

“That may be true, but it’s an insult to my bloodline.” Ruscoe didn’t so much as flinch when Dodger growled at him. “I don’t think you realize exactly how well-known you are on these streets. The Artful Dodger is a celebrity. More dogs than you know are aware of how the Company killed the Dobermans who’d been threatening your owner.”

“Well sure, we did the city a public service.”

That earned more than a flinch.

“Personally, I don’t give two bones that you killed Roscoe. I heard what had happened and I thought… so what? I barely knew my father. But the insult, Dodger. The insult.” The Doberman regained his countenance after a brief snap and growl. Now he shook his head like the Godfather of a crime family — he had no choice but to answer insult with injury. “I can’t have dogs saying that I let you get away with murdering my father. What kind of son would I be? So yeah, I don’t care that Dad’s dead. I just have a reputation to maintain. You understand.”

“I don’t understand why ya gotta take it out on every mutt ya meet.”

“Hey, someone’s gotta clean up New York. Guiliani didn’t go far enough.” Ruscoe and the dogs who served him began closing in, fangs bared, claws out. “This is a prestigious city. We can’t have mongrels running around polluting every block.”

“Ya won’t get any farther than City Hall, mark my words.”

“Please. It’s just a matter of time till all of Manhattan belongs to us.”

The Purebreds moved closer and closer, trapping him on all sides. Razor was to his left, Club on the right, and Ruscoe towered in front. Scores of snarling dogs encircled him, edging in with sneers and snarls. He was surrounded on all sides.

“You thought you could just barge into our territory, knowing nothing about our gang, and tell us what’s what? This isn’t your city, Artful Dodger. Not anymore.” Somehow, Dodger knew the next words out of Ruscoe’s mouth before he said them.

“Kill him, boys.”

In an instant, every dog was charging him, barking and slashing teeth and claws, but Dodger responded a second faster than any of them. He jumped on top of the dogs, scraping over them, kicking his way onto their backs and jumping from one to the other.

He broke free of the crowd and ran as fast as he could, but the Purebreds started after him. Dodger bolted through the Battery, winding around trees and busting onto the streets of Lower Manhattan. But no matter how fast he ran, the Purebreds were always right behind him, snapping at his heels. 

Razor was leaner and faster than the others and quickly gained on him. When the vicious Shepherd was close enough, he leapt forward and snagged Dodger’s red bandana. He was choked instantly, pulled down to the asphalt. Even as Razor slashed and tore into his fur and flesh, Dodger fought back. He had to fight, had to escape, because if the rest of the Purebreds caught up and joined Razor, he was finished.

But just then, Razor sunk his teeth deep in his back leg. Dodge whined in pain. The other Purebreds were nearly caught up, but when Razor bit his leg, Dodger slashed his face.

Razor released his leg, but when Dodger tried to get away, the brute again snared his bandana. Dodger yanked and tugged until he heard the red scarf tear. It ripped off.

“I liked that bandana!” Dodger kicked gravel in Razor’s eyes.

It was agony to put pressure on his injured back leg, but Dodger managed to jump atop an oncoming car. Just when he thought he was safely speeding down the road, he looked back and saw the Purebreds leaping onto cars like he’d done. They jumped from car to car, moving closer to him. Ruscoe himself was in the lead.

The cars took them zooming past the docks on the East River. The Purebreds chased him along the riverfront, leaping across cars to catch him. When Dodger changed cars, the Purebreds did the same — it was impossible to lose them — then the lane took a sudden turn.

Dodger started to slip but steadied himself on the swerving car top. He looked up and realized they were driving onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

He barely made the next car without stumbling into the speeding traffic. Fleeing for your life was exhausting. Dodger didn’t know how much longer he could go, but the Purebreds never once slowed down. Now they were closer than ever.

They were on the Brooklyn Bridge, driving over the East River. With a giant leap, Ruscoe was on the car beside Dodger. They drove along the very edge of the bridge. The Doberman barked over the traffic, “You can’t escape us, Dodger! Can’t outrun us! There’s no place in our city that’s safe for you now!”

“This will never be ya city! Not as long as I’m around!”

“You’re fooling yourself! New York is already ours!” Ruscoe readied himself on the edge of his car, ready for the kill. “It will always be ours, whether you live or die!”

In one swift motion, Ruscoe had leapt and landed on the same car as Dodger. He’d thrown all his weight against him. Dodger fell off the car, cracked his ribs on the bridge’s railing, and then he was over the edge.

Dodger fell from the Brooklyn Bridge and plummeted towards the black waters below. His life passed in a blur, everything was a blur. He’d suffered pain and caused it.

He’d ditched the Company because of his mother. He’d given Charlie, Noah, and Nancy grief when they left. He’d gotten mad at Oliver for finding a rich human to love him.

Dodger slammed into the East River, and the impact of the water hurt more than anything he’d ever felt. The river was freezing cold, soaking him to the bone. He was below water.

He couldn’t think anymore — it was all fading — and his world went black, just like the night his mother had left him in a snow-filled street. Everything was black, lost to the night.

The current tossed him back and forth without stop, his lungs filled with water, and vision left him. New York City disappeared below the waves.

* * *

His body was pulled underwater then thrown to the surface again, an endless back and forth, carried north up the East River by a merciless current. Dodger fought for consciousness, afraid of what would happen if he closed his eyes.

If he never made it out of the river, what would happen to his friends?

Fagin must’ve realized by now that one of his dogs had left him yet again, and that could make him spiral into smoke and drink. Francis, Tito, and Einstein would be bummed out, but they had each other’s backs. Rita would think that he was too stubborn to apologize, that he never wanted to see them again, and she’d hate him. He didn’t want her to hate him. He just wanted them all to be a great big gang again, to get Charlie, Noah, and Nancy back in the Company. He thought about Nancy especially — her sweet scent, the gold of her fur, and the cute way her ears flopped around her face — and how much he wanted to see her again. But more than anyone else, he thought about how Oliver would react… and how devastated he’d be as he waited for a visit from Dodger that never came.

Dodger swam to the surface and fought to stay above water. He gasped lungfuls of air. He was determined now — he wouldn’t be the Purebreds’ latest victim. 

He was forced underwater again, but the blackness didn’t set in. When he reemerged, he looked to the city line. He wasn’t that far from the river’s edge. He’d been swept north of the Williamsburg Bridge. If he could just get to a pier.

He began swimming — or to be more precise, doggy paddling — through the cold waters, making for the nearest pier. Dodger struggled against the current, but the more he thought of Fagin, the Company, his Nancy babe, and Oliver, the harder he swam. 

Finally, Dodger reached a pier that jutted out from the river walkway. When the waves rose, they buoyed him high enough to grab onto the wooden planks. He pulled himself safely onto the pier, dripping wet but alive.

Even an exhausted dog could still shake the water out of his fur.

“If I wanted to go swimming,” he groaned, “I’d have gone to Coney Island.”

The current had taken him farther north than he’d realized. He could make out the Empire State Building on the skyline, and when he peered up the river, he could just see the dark shape of Roosevelt Island that lay between Manhattan and Long Island. At least he was far from the Purebreds, though the next time Dodger needed to go from downtown to uptown in a hurry, he’d take the subway. Swimming was only pleasant in warm weather.

He was glad to be alive, but Razor had destroyed the red bandana Fagin gave him years ago. Dodger felt naked without it tied around his neck.

He needed somewhere to go, somewhere to spend the night. He could always find an alleyway to curl up in, but when Dodger realized that he was close to uptown, he started back into the city once he’d regained some strength. He’d make for Fifth Avenue. His cracked ribs and bitten leg had him gritting his teeth, but somehow, he limped onward.

It was thoughts of Oliver, his little brother, that gave him strength to swim the river and limp the city. It was to Oliver’s home he would go.

* * *

In the busy world of New York in the late 1980’s, hardly anyone stopped to look around when they were walking somewhere. Looking around meant you might see vagrants trying to sell you something, or just sleeping under a ratty coat or newspapers. If you looked down from the glittering city lights and street signs, you might see needles and broken bottles.

Mr. Foxworth stopped that morning. He’d first taken Georgette for her early stroll around the block. She liked to show off the latest outfit his wife had brought for her. Georgette was much more his wife’s pet than his, which was perfectly fine.

Except that David Foxworth had always wanted a dog to call his own, not to dress up and take on photo shoots, but to sit with him during his morning coffee and newspaper.

Now that he had coffee on his mind, he decided to try the new shop that had opened on the corner. Winston, their butler, always had a pot in the kitchen, but David liked a cappuccino now and then. He returned Georgette to the mansion, then he went on his way.

He exited the coffee shop holding a steaming cup. When he passed a bench, he looked down to see if the usual homeless man was there. What he saw made him drop his coffee.

“Dodger!” The man fell to his knees — his pants already had coffee spilled on them, so gravel wouldn’t hurt — beside the dog huddled below the sidewalk bench.

“You’re hurt, boy.” He picked him up gently, careful not to touch his back leg that had a nasty bite. His fur was damp and smelled like a dirty river. Mr. Foxworth was relieved to hear his heart beating, but he was unconscious — he must’ve walked himself to exhaustion.

Passers-by didn’t stop to help, but they at least gave him room to wrap Dodger in his sports jacket, cradle him in his arms, and carry him back to the mansion.

“Winston, call the veterinarian. I found him on the sidewalk like this.” He pushed books and TV remotes off the living room coffee table and set him down. “Now, Winston!”

The frantic butler made the call. They wrapped a dish towel around his back leg and tied it tight. Jenny heard the commotion and came running downstairs. “What’s going on, Daddy?” Her eyes went wide when she saw Dodger. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but we’re going to make sure he’s okay. I need you to stay calm. Go tell your mother that Winston and I are taking him to the vet.”

Jenny nodded and ran from the living room. Oliver had followed her down and was now peeking around the corner. He didn’t want to be in their way, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Dodger. He looked worse than when he’d fought Roscoe and DeSoto.

When the two men had Dodger wrapped and loaded in their limousine, Winston hopped in the front seat. Mr. Foxworth sat with Dodger in the back. “Don’t worry, boy. I won’t let anything happen to you. That’s a Foxworth promise.” He scratched his ears. “You saved Jen’s life. It’s only fair that we return the favor.”

* * *

That evening, the Foxworths were gathered in the living room again. When they left Dodger at the vet, they’d been assured that he would make a full recovery, but that did stop them from worrying. They’d had a light dinner — soup and hot sandwiches from a deli — but Jenny had been too anxious to eat much. She leapt off the couch and stood before her parents.

“Someone has to tell Mr. Fagin, don’t they? Dodger is one of his dogs.” She hugged Winston, who’d come to her side. “Mr. Fagin must be worried sick.”

“Does Mr. Fagin usually let his pets wander around the city?”

“I… I think so,” Jenny sniffled. “I don’t know, Dad.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Winston said, patting the girl’s shoulder, “but after meeting him at Miss Jennifer’s birthday party, I was left with the distinct impression that Mr. Fagin is, well… homeless. Or close to it, anyways.”

“Do we actually have a way to contact this Fagin fellow?”

“None that I know of, sir. He never gave us a phone number or address.”

“Well, he knows where we live. If he ever stops by, we’ll tell him what happened to Dodger. But in the meantime…” Mr. Foxworth knelt beside his daughter, who was trying to pretend she wasn’t crying. He hugged her, then turned to Winston. “Would you mind taking Jen to bed? It’s been a long day.” The butler nodded and escorted her upstairs.

Alone with his wife, Mr. Foxworth collapsed into his armchair — exactly where Oliver had been sitting. The cat yowled indignantly and jumped to the floor. “Sorry, Oliver… I’m a little tired.” He rubbed his forehead. “We have to take him in.”

“Are you sure, David? Fagin might turn up and want him back.”

“Then we’ll give him back, but right now, Dodger needs a home. And if the man lets his dogs run freely around New York, maybe he’s better off with us.” Another thought occurred that made him smile. “Jen is happier whenever he’s around. Have you noticed?”

“If he’s good for her, then how can we refuse him?”

“We can’t.” He staggered out of the armchair to join May on the sofa, wrapping his arms around her. “He helped save her from the mobster. Having Dodger here could make everything better.” David kissed her cheek. “But Georgette’s not going to like it.”

“Then Georgette’s going to have to get over herself.”

Three days later, Dodger was carried into the mansion by Mr. Foxworth, who’d gotten him to cooperate with extra bacon. Dodger’s back leg and chest were all bandaged. He’d been grumpy after being locked in a cage at the vet, but ever since they’d given him pain medication he’d felt much more lightheaded. 

Maybe it was the pain pills talking, but as he looked around the luxurious Foxworth mansion, Dodger was pretty sure he was going to enjoy himself. Jenny and Winston greeted him, while Mrs. Foxworth stayed back with a seething Georgette.

Best of all, Oliver was waiting for him in the living room. Mr. Foxworth set him down, chuckling as he limped towards the cat. They got on the sofa together.

Oliver snuggled beside him. Jenny fed him pieces of rotisserie chicken from the fridge. Mr. Foxworth reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two items of apparel.

“May bought you these welcoming presents.” Dodger woofed at Mrs. Foxworth, who beamed as her husband revealed a dark red collar with a golden name tag. Dodger couldn’t read, of course, but if he could he’d see that it said _DODGER, 1125 5th Avenue_. In his other hand, he held a navy blue bandana. Dodger sniffed it suspiciously. It had the disconcerting smell of brand-new, department-store clothes. “Seems you’ve lost your red one, so we thought you might need a replacement. Do you like it?”

Dodger woofed. Satisfied, Mr. Foxworth tied the navy bandana around his neck before putting the collar on him. It was a perfect fit. Best of all, it matched Oliver’s. Crimson and navy blue was a new color combination for him, but Dodger liked it. He liked everything about the Foxworth, from their morning bagels to their nightly hugs.

Recent weeks had seen his life go up and down like merciless waves. Dodger thought of his mother with the Company, he thought of the Purebreds in the lower city, then he didn’t want to think anymore. After his troubles, surely he deserved something good.

Mr. Foxworth kissed his head. “Welcome to the family.”


	6. "You're My Home"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dodger loves life at the Foxworth mansion, even if it means the occasional bath. He gets to bother Georgette and make Jenny feel better. He loves spending time with Oliver, except when aloof Adena visits. But is Dodger happy, or is he hiding?

One week after the Foxworths had adopted Dodger as their own, they’d removed the bandaging from his ribs and back leg. His wounds had healed well, but little did he know another trial awaited him. He thought Mr. Foxworth was joking when he smelled his fur and nearly gagged. “Whew, boy! What do you do, roll around in dumpsters all day?” Dodger would neither confirm nor deny that accusation. “You’re getting a bath.”

But the man wasn’t joking. Half an hour later, he had Dodger trapped in a tub of water in the mansion’s back patio. Mr. Foxworth nearly pulled a muscle restraining him. “Hold still, boy! You’re being ridiculous!” He held him underwater like a monster.

“Help! Help me!” Dodger sputtered. “Oliver, he’s crazy! He’s drowning me!”

“If you survived the East River, I’m sure you’ll survive a bath.” Oliver sat on the back steps a safe distance away from the splashing water. He licked his paws innocently.

“Okay, I call a ceasefire!” Mr. Foxworth let go, laughing with some sick joy. Dodger flopped to the ground, sopping wet and covered in soapy suds. “We can take a break.”

But when Dodger turned his back, the man hosed off the last of the soap. Dodger yelped and fled — Mr. Foxworth was a criminal mastermind worse than Sykes — and shook his fur out properly. He laid down in a sunny spot on the patio to dry.

“Don’t forget these, boy.” The man wisely gave him dog treats first, then took Dodger’s new crimson collar and navy bandana from his back pocket and tied them around his neck.

Dodger was proud to wear his collar, something he never thought he’d say.

Mr. Foxworth went back inside, leaving Dodger and Oliver to enjoy the afternoon sun. While the dog was still damp, Oliver avoided snuggling him. “Don’t think I don’t see ya snickering over there,” Dodger said, rolling on his back.

“I’m just astounded you don’t smell like greasy hotdogs for once.”

“If it weren’t for those hotdogs, we never woulda met.”

“That’s true,” Oliver chuckled, then he saw his friend pawing at his collar. He hoped it wasn’t too tight. “Dodger? Baths aside… you are happy here, aren’t you?”

“Sure I am. Just thinking about tha day Fagin gave me my old bandana.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I know that new one isn’t the same.”

“Don’t apologize, kid. That thing reeked. Absitively needed to go.” He stretched his arms and legs out, baring his belly to the world. “Just not used to this baby yet.”

The dog and cat stayed on the patio the rest of the afternoon, soaking up sun.

* * *

Lesser dogs carried Georgette into the Taj Mahal on a silk pillow as crowds of admirers threw flower petals at her. She had just been crowned Best in Show for the entire world. She was being fed her favorite carob chocolates, surrounded by her favorite dogs.

“Oh, Rex… say it again, you rapscallion,” Georgette whispered.

Rex leaned in close, his green scarf brushing her. “Perfect isn’t easy… but you make it look so.” Georgette swooned and fell into his arms.

But just before Rex could ravish her — to which she’d protest, of course, then helplessly succumb — the doors of the Taj Mahal burst open. A tiny dog charged into the room. He was so handsome, so dashing, so bug-eyed. “Stay away from my woman, Rexy!” A Chihuahua.

“My Alonzo! You came for me!” Georgette watched her Latino lover fight tooth and nail for the right to court her. Rex fought well, but her Alonzo was fearless. He ran the rapscallion out of the Taj Mahal with his tail between his legs.

“I’ll always come for ya, _mi amor_ ,” he murmured. “ _Para siempre_.”

“Nothing could ruin this night. It’s just you and me.”

“Oh no, I brought a friend. Ya remember Spot, don’t ya?”

A tornado erupted on the spot and blew away the Taj Mahal. All of her chocolates, her admirers, were swept up in the storm, and in the center of it was a hideous mutt with messy white, gray, and brown fur. He had ugly, floppy ears and an arrogant sneer.

“Wakey, wakey, Champ!” 

Georgette awoke to the most horrid sight imaginable. The mongrel was standing over her, leering at her, and wearing his new collar over his stupid bandana. “Having a bad dream?”

“It was the best — until you came along. I didn’t invite you!”

“I don’t need no invitation. We’re housemates now, remember?”

Her eyes went wide as her first-place medals. She’d hoped it was only temporary, just to let his injuries recover, but here he was with his bandages gone, freshly bathed. It was true.

“They can’t do this! I didn’t give them permission to adopt you!”

“Tha Dodge makes his own rules.” He strutted over to her heart-shaped mirror and admired his reflection. “Y’know, red and navy looks pretty snazzy after all.”

“Get out of here, Spot! This is my suite, not yours!”

“Oh, hope ya don’t mind, but I tried some of ya fancy chow while ya slept. I gotta say, not impressed. I think I prefer my street vendors.” He took another bite and made a face. That designer chow was worth more than his life, and he dared insult it?

“You’re horrible. You’re absolutely horrible.”

“Well, of course. If I’m not, I ain’t trying hard enough.”

Dodger left her luxury suite laughing his head off, strutting like he owned the place, but before he was out the door Georgette suddenly cried, “Wait just a moment!” She cleared her throat. “Not that I care, I have so many suitors, but… has Alonzo asked about me?”

“Tito?” He almost pitied her for a moment. Dodger remembered that since spring, Tito had accompanied him a few times to the Foxworths’ mansion to visit “his woman,” but each time ended with him being bathed or put in a cute outfit or getting brushed. He ran off screaming for Frankie to save him every time. “I think ya scared him away permanently.”

“Oh dear… I thought he enjoyed our little romps. Who doesn’t like new clothes?”

“I’m sure ya’ll be fine. Like ya said, ya have so many suitors.”

Now he really did leave her suite, wondering if Tito had ever really loved her, or if he was only in it for the cigars. He was inclined towards the latter. Dodger yawned lazily and trotted down the hall. He smelled Oliver’s feline scent to his right, and sure enough, his favorite cat was snoozing on the windowsill in the billiard room. Oliver was napping on the fuzzy green pool table. When he heard Dodger come in, he stretched his legs and casually kicked the white cute ball. It sunk a solid blue, rolled off, and sunk another solid.

“Good shot, kid.” Dodger stood on his back legs, paws on the table.

“Thanks,” Oliver yawned. He sniffed his best friend. “You smell like Georgette. Don’t tell me you were bothering her again.”

“Gotta take Miss Stuck-Up off her high horse once in a while, don’t we?” He swiped at the billiard balls, trying to sink a stripe. “Bet tha Purebreds would love her to join them.”

“The Purebreds? Who are they?”

Dodger accidentally sent the black 8-ball into a pocket.

“Oh, uh… nothing. Just tha kennel club set, y’know? Tha classy dog show purebreds, that’s what I meant.”

Oliver looked at him curiously, but didn’t press the issue.

He went back to napping on the billiard table and Dodger slunk over to a black leather sofa, hopped up, and took a nap himself. A little rest would calm his beating heart. He chastised himself for bringing up that gang — he was here to forget about them, wasn’t he? — and went back to remembering the funny face Georgette made when he ate her fancy chow.

* * *

Life with the Foxworths was really and truly great. Dodger had lived with them nearly three weeks now, and he couldn’t imagine returning to his crazy old life.

David Foxworth took him on daily walks up and down Fifth Avenue and throughout Central Park, and they played ball together. Yes, the Artful Dodger’s guilty pleasure was catching baseballs in his mouth. All around them, orange-and-brown leaves were falling from the trees; warm weather was a thing of the past. They were well into November. 

When Dodger lay on the sofa, May Foxworth scratched his ears while reading a book. She spent more time doting over Georgette, but the lady was kind — unlike dear Georgie, who’d been giving him the silent treatment ever since he broke the news about Tito.

Jenny was gone to school during the week, but she always greeted Dodger when she hopped off the afternoon bus. Her therapy sessions had gone from weekly to monthly.

And of course, there was Oliver. His little brother. Dodger used to think stealing hotdogs and hitting on girls were the greatest joys in life, but he’d been so wrong.

Not everything was peachy between them. One evening a visitor came to the mansion.

“Uhh, can I help ya?” Dodger was in the downstairs library playing some notes on the black grand piano, and the window was propped open. He was surprised to see a strange female cat, a calico, hop up on the window ledge from the sidewalk like she’d been invited. 

“I’m looking for Oliver,” she mewed. “Could you go fetch him?”

“Sorry, I only fetch baseballs, tennis balls, and tha occasional stick.”

“You’re more talented than you look. Can you roll over and play dead, too?”

He was about to bark when the ginger cat in question came prancing into the library. His face lit up when he saw the visitor in the window. “Adena! You came back!”

“Hi, Ollie.” The calico grinned. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You should stop by more often. Want to come inside?”

“Actually, I wondered if you wanted to come outside.”

“Oh. I… I don’t know. My owners wouldn’t like it.” Oliver looked at Adena so wistfully that it would’ve broken Dodger’s heart, if he didn’t dislike this girl cat so much. Oliver suddenly remembered his big brother was there, too. “But maybe if Dodger tags along!”

“Dodger?” She tilted her face. “As in the Artful Dodger?”

“Tha one and only,” he huffed. “What’s it to ya?”

“I’m surprised. I heard you were a cool street dog, not a house pet.”

“With me, ya get tha best of both worlds.” Dodger tossed his head like a teen rockstar.

He’d always enjoyed how well-known he was on the New York streets, how much every stray dog admired that rascally Artful Dodger — after all, he’d gotten twenty dogs to interrupt traffic with him for an impromptu dance number — but recent events had made him consider the downside of being famous. Dodger used to think all he had to worry about was the angry boyfriends of his flirtations, but that was before Ruscoe had pushed him into the river.

“Then again, maybe I ain’t too keen on ya knowing my name.”

Adena arched her back when he growled softly. “I didn’t mean anything by it! Geez, I’m sorry. Don’t get so worked up.”

“Honestly, Dodger, she was only making conversation.” Oliver glared at him.

Dodger had a few more things to say to Adena, a couple questions to ask, but he gave in and muttered a false apology. But he’d made it obvious that he wasn’t accompanying Oliver anywhere with her. “I’m sorry, Adena… I don’t think I’m going out today.”

“That’s okay, Ollie.” She leaned forward on the windowsill and Oliver leaned up from the floor. Their pink noses touched. “We’ll take a rain check.”

The calico flashed a pretty smile for Oliver and an eye roll for Dodger. She leapt down from the window’s ledge, over the flower beds, and landed daintily on the sidewalk. Oliver jumped onto the windowsill to watch her stroll down the block and cross the street. He feared a car would hit her, but Adena navigated the road perfectly. Soon she was disappearing into the autumn-colored wilderness of Central Park; the black, white, and orange of her fur blended with the piles of fallen leaves. Oliver whipped around.

“Why were you so rude to her? I know Adena’s bit sarcastic, but she’s nice to me. And it’s nice to talk to another cat for once.”

“What, ya sick of us dogs already?” Dodger chuckled, but Oliver wasn’t smiling. “Look, I’m sorry, kid. I shouldn’t have been so snappy, but don’t ya think there’s something suspicious about her?” He narrowed his eyes. “Why does she want ya to go out with her?”

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe because she likes me?” 

“Or maybe she wants to feed ya to her alley cat friends.”

“Which of those sounds more likely?” Oliver scoffed. He leapt from the windowsill onto the nearest bookshelf, which he knew the Foxworths didn’t want him doing. He curled up on an overturned copy of _Oliver Twist_ , his back to his friend. He said nothing else.

Dodger groaned and left him alone in the library, heading down the hall to the living room sofa. He’d napped in it so often that it had a Dodger-shaped indentation. 

He knew the kid’s hormones would kick in one day — but why did he have to fall for such a sarcastic girl? Out of all the perfectly-nice cats in New York, Oliver just had to meet one with an attitude from Jersey Shore. Now it was rubbing off on the kid.

Dodger remembered the afternoon that Oliver had come back from playing in the park with Jenny. He had seen a mother cat with her new kittens hiding in the bushes, and that led sweet, innocent Oliver to ask his big brother where babies came from. 

Which led Dodger to explain that they had certain... animal instincts.

* * *

“I’m home, fellas!” Jenny Foxworth burst into the living room and threw her arms around her ginger cat. Oliver mewed and nuzzled her, purring to see Jenny in such a good mood.

After she hugged him, it was Dodger’s turn. “I’m so glad you’re staying with us.” Jenny wore a guilty grin. “I don’t really want you to go back to Fagin. I know that’s wrong, but it’s true. Hope you don’t mind.” She scratched under his chin.

From the way he woofed, it seemed Dodger didn’t mind in the least.

“How was therapy today, dear?” Mrs. Foxworth came into the room with a glass of lemonade for her daughter. She led her into the kitchen for lunch.

“It was great! I told her that we adopted Dodger, and that I haven’t had a nightmare in weeks, and she said I was making really good progress.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“Proud enough for me to skip my studies today?”

“I don’t think so missy. Your algebra isn’t going to learn itself.”

When they were gone, it was just Oliver and Dodger in the living room, curled together on the sofa. Their argument over Adena the other day had quickly been forgotten, and they’d happily resumed chasing each other around the house. Dodger’s ribs and back leg had healed, which meant he could head back to the streets whenever he wanted. But that was a funny thing.

“So, kid,” he said, “what’s this therapy place she’s always going to?”

Oliver had known it was a matter of time before his big brother grew curious about it. “Well, it started a few days after her birthday party. I was sleeping on her bed when Jenny… she woke up screaming. She kept seeing Roscoe and DeSoto. She said she could smell Sykes’s cigars. Her father threw all his out the next day.” The cat wasn’t upset about that, for he’d hated the smell. “When the nightmares didn’t stop, they took her to get help.”

“Poor girl,” Dodger whimpered. “What kinda help is there?”

“She went to group therapy at first, but talking with other kids who’d been… you know, kidnapped… I think it made it worse. They they went through a lot of one-on-one therapists and finally found a good one.” He snuggled the mutt. “But you’ve been the best by far.”

“I do what I can.” Dodger himself had dreamed of the Dobermans a few times — more often since meeting Ruscoe — but he’d grown up facing mean street dogs. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for a little girl. “Fear is pretty horrible, ain’t it?”

“We’re all afraid of something,” Oliver said. He looked out the window at the cloudless sky. “Sometimes when it storms really bad, I feel like I’m gonna wash away again.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, kiddo. I get afraid sometimes too.”

“Afraid of what?” Oliver paused, then quietly asked, “The Purebreds?”

Dodger’s eyes went wide. “What? No, I told ya, I just meant — ”

“You didn’t mean show dogs, bro. I know you didn’t.”

“Okay, ya got me.” He rolled over on the sofa to show his belly, admitting defeat. “Tha Purebreds are a gang of street dogs, mean ones, all pure-blooded whatevers. An old friend warned me about them, but I didn’t listen. Thought they were a joke.”

Dodger explained that he’d walked headfirst into Lower Manhattan to prove they weren’t real but had been proved wrong himself. He told him about Club and Razor, and how he’d injured the German Shepherd when they were pups, then he got to the scary part.

“Ya ain’t gonna believe this, but their leader is Roscoe’s son. Calls himself Ruscoe, and he’s out for revenge cause I insulted him when I took out his old man.” Dodger shuddered at the thought of those yellow eyes, those sharp teeth. “He’s a nightmare, kid. Had his gang chase me onto tha Brooklyn Bridge… then they pushed me into tha river. I barely survived.”

Dodger used to make up stories about his wild and dangerous adventures on the streets to entertain the Company, back when they’d lived on the houseboat. Squirrels became flesh-eating carnivores. Taxi cabs became tanks of war. But now that Dodger had a real story where he’d almost died, it wasn’t nearly as fun to tell anymore.

“Is that why you’re happy here?” Oliver asked after a brief silence. “I thought you’d be restless for the streets, but since the Purebreds attacked… you’re afraid of them.”

“Whaddya talking about? Tha Dodge ain’t afraid of no one.”

“Yes, you are. And you’d be crazy not to be.” The cat snuggled his chest warmly. He could hear his heartbeat racing. “The streets are dangerous. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah… maybe I am afraid. Maybe I’m hiding from them.”

“Why shouldn’t you? This isn’t your fight.”

Dodger knew his little brother feared for him, knew he wanted him out of harm’s way, but the statement gave him a sinking feeling in his chest. His stomach was in a knot. Dodger nuzzled the kid back but leapt off the sofa. He left the living room.

He walked through the kitchen, where he ate some kibble from bowls on the floor. He went to the library on the ground floor, where he could snooze or play piano. He poked his nose into the den, where the family watched TV and kept dog biscuits in a jar. He saw the backdoor that led to the patio, where he and Oliver sunbathed. He headed upstairs and glanced in the billiard room, where they had fun batting the balls around. He looked towards Georgette’s suite, where he took amusement from bothering her. He glanced at the door to Jenny’s bedroom, and further down the hall, her parents’ room. A family that loved him.

What more could a dog want out of life?

“So what if I’m hiding?” he muttered. “This ain’t my fight.”

Oliver’s intuition was spot on. Dodger was restless for the streets — he longed to stretch his legs on a car top, to steal a soft pretzel from a vendor, to slide down a construction pipe and leave his paw prints in wet cement, to dance to the roar of traffic and the hustle-and-bustle, to be footloose and collar-free — until he remembered the Purebreds.

Greedy, ugly, psychotic monsters with razor-sharp claws, dripping fangs. A gang of brutes, all of them hungry. They came at him, eyes burning, he knew his time had come...

He shook his head. Definitely not as fun to tell anymore.


	7. "Pressure"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company may be poor, but they have each other. Francis and Tito embarrass themselves, Rita meets Charlie again and learns why she's not in Harlem, Fagin comes home with bad news, and Annie has a surprise. Rita steps up to the plate.

Over the course of his four-and-a-half years and counting, Francis Canis Bulldog had always strived for a level of sophistication and etiquette he often felt his companions lacked.

To be fair, he was the former pet of an alumni of the London School of Dramatic Art — the man had moved to NYC to pursue a life on Broadway, only to find he hated the stage after years of competition and mountains of student debt. Similarly, he’d adopted Francis with all the best intentions, only to find Bulldogs had health complications and were a bit costly.

Alone, betrayed, Francis had wandered the city like King Lear in the storm until Fagin found him. The man was ghastly poor, but Francis had learned to look past his rags.

“Lost in thought, Frankie?” Rita inquired. He was on the patchwork couch, and she was on the rug below. “Looks like something’s bugging you.”

“Oh, nothing. Just remembering my old life of culture and class.”

“What, Einy’s drool ain’t classy?” She chuckled and glanced at the aged Great Dane. He was curled up beside straw-colored Annie, the poor old girl, and together they napped on Fagin’s floor mattress. Einstein and Annie spent much time in each other’s company.

“You know, Rita, I’ll take kindness over sophistication anyday.” He rested his head on a scratchy pillow — it wasn’t silk, but it wasn’t cardboard either. “I’m quite content here. I have good friends, and best of all, peace and quiet.”

“ _Hola, mi amigos!_ Ignacio Alonzo Julio Federico de Tito is in tha house!”

A rat-looking excuse for a dog jumped through the doggy door. Tito strutted in wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses and a red bandana that dragged behind him like a cape.

“Do I even want to ask why you’re wearing that?” Rita groaned.

“Eh, someone’s gotta take over for Dodger’s dramatic entrances, no?”

“They were one of his more charming traits,” Francis said.

“Funny, Tito. Real funny.” Rita tried to sound pleasant, but there was an unmistakable bite in her words. “But seriously. We gave his mom a home, now he’s being petty and ditched us. That’s all there is to it.”

“One might say the president has resigned his Company.”

“Heh heh! Good one, Frankie!” Tito hopped up on the couch with him, swinging his pelvis for a hip bump. The little rat began humming and dancing like some kind of hooligan, but it was infectious. Francis bobbed his head up and down, swaying with him.

Tito grinned, tossed the shades away, and threw those beaming bug eyes at him. “ _No pare, sigue sigue!_ ” He spun in a circle, Francis rolled over, and Tito seized the chance to leap on his belly. “ _Toda la noche!_ ” Their eyes met. Tito gulped.

Francis had bubbles in his tummy that he usually reserved for Shakespeare. He cleared his throat and moved, forcing Tito off him. “Goodness, what’s the A/C at? It’s warm in here.”

Rita looked at him with a funny grin. “Weird start to the night, huh?”

To make it weirder, a dog began howling outside the apartment complex.

“What are wolves doing here?” Einstein asked groggily.

“Who is that?” Rita huffed. “They’re gonna wake the whole block.”

The howling didn’t stop, and just as she’d feared, shouting from the neighbors came next. The person next door banged on the wall like he thought they were the noisy ones. Rita had to restrain Tito so he didn’t add to the ruckus. “I’m gonna tell them to knock it off.”

“Good idea,” Francis said. “I’ll accompany you, my dear.”

Rita slipped out the doggy door with no trouble, but unfortunately, whoever began breeding Bulldogs centuries ago had decided they should be on the chunky side. Francis got his head through but caught around the tummy. His cheeks flushed. Behind him, he could hear Tito laughing. He squeezed himself through to get away from the laughter, more than anything.

“You okay, Frankie?” Rita nuzzled him gently. She heard his breathing.

“Yes, fine,” he said, taking deep gulps of air to stop himself wheezing. “Bulldog breathing troubles, that’s all.” One in, one out, slow as possible. “I’m alright.”

“Tito ain’t making fun of you. You mean the world to him.”

He paused at the top of the stairs. “Do you really think so?”

Rita raised an eyebrow and grinned, but said nothing. His heart racing faster than ever, Francis followed her down the apartment steps and onto the ground level. The evening was red and purple, clouds streaked above the low Bronx rooftops, and the air was chilly. “Okay now, who in Old Yeller’s name is making all that racket?”

The howling stopped, replaced by a happy bark. Suddenly Rita recognized the bark and howl, knew who the dog was before she saw her face. Deep down, Rita had been half-hoping to see Dodger come to apologize, but it was a pleasant surprise to see Charlie instead.

“Girl, what is wrong with you?” She greeted the black-and-white collie.

“What’s wrong is there ain’t no decent vendors in tha Bronx!” Charlie laughed, running up and touching noses with her, sniffing her eagerly. “Long time no see, Frankie.”

“Mercy, how many times must I say it? My name is Francis. I don’t appreciate being called Frank or…” Here, he shuddered. “… _Frankie_.” A truly deplorable nickname. 

“Nice to see he hasn’t changed.” 

“Wanna come up?” Rita nodded to the stairs.

Francis whispered in her ear, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You know Tito and Einstein were not happy with them for… you know…” He was a loud whisperer.

Charlie puffed up her black-and-white chest. “For ditching ya when Sykes showed?” She shook her head and sighed. “I was hoping we could move on, Frankie… I miss ya guys. Came all this way to hang out with tha Company again. Don’t turn a sister away.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rita led her old friend to the stairs and showed her up. Frankie fell behind, hobbling after the others. He has nerves in his stomach again, but not from Tito.

Up the steps, onto the landing, and through the doggy door into the apartment. Charlie broke into the biggest grin when she saw the rest of the Company — Tito on the sofa, Einstein on the mattress — and woofed a greeting. Behind her, Rita and Frankie saw the astonished looks on their gangmates’ faces. Frankie whispered, “I tried to warn you.”

“Hey, hey, guys! I didn’t know I missed ya till I saw ya now.”

“Hello, Charlie,” Einy grumbled half-heartedly.

Tito didn’t do her the courtesy. He gave her a bug-eyed glare.

“Guys?” The collie’s ears fell. She exchanged a sad look with Rita. “I was joking. I did miss ya.” The apartment’s residents knew Fagin had not, in fact, turned up the A/C because heat was expensive. And now the apartment was unusually chilly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone,” Rita suddenly spoke up. She rounded on Frankie, Tito, and Einy. “Okay, yeah, Charlie, Nancy, and Noah left when it got rough. But can you blame them? We were being threatened by killer Dobermans. They got scared.”

The boys mumbled words that sounded half-hearted: water under the bridge, we can move on, yesterday’s gone, and similar sentiments. Not a great apology, but Charlie would take what she could get, and she wasn’t the type of dog to hold a grudge.

By now the evening had faded, the light left the apartment, and the dogs had all tucked themselves into bed. Einstein and Annie slept on the mattress, sweet together. Frankie and Tito were curled up on the couch. Resentment was replaced with sleepiness.

* * *

Night in the Bronx was a little friskier, a little more dangerous than Manhattan. They were still people walking the streets, a lot of kids with no where better to go, rather than fancy shoppers, diners, and showgoers. It was less plastic, and she appreciated it.

Rita and Charlie had slipped out of the apartment while the others slept, back through the doggy door, and walked a few blocks. Fagin wasn’t back yet, which was not unusual; probably he was pulling a double shift. “He finally got a job, eh?” Charlie asked.

“We’re all happy for him. Life is going better for all of us.”

“Tha Company deserves a break,” she chuckled.

They returned to the rundown basketball court where they met the other day. The ball was still there, and the pavement was cracked and weedy as ever. Charlie bounced the ball against the wall, Rita joined in, and soon they were laughing their worries away.

There was a fire escape nearby with its steel ladder left hanging. It was just low enough for Charlie to jump onto a trash can then leap onto the steps and climb her way to the landing. She barked to Rita to join her, who rolled her eyes but followed. They ascended three more flights until they could see the Bronx rooftops, the window lights, the cars zooming by, and way off in the distance, the skyscrapers of the Big Apple.

The November air was crisp and Rita shivered, so Charlie moved closer to her. It made Rita’s heart race. “Can I ask a dumb question?”

“Only if I get to ask one back,” Charlie said. “Ask away.”

“Well, back when we all lived on the barge, you seemed to… you hung out with Nancy a lot. You slept on blankets together. You let her eat first.” Rita didn’t know where her feelings came from. She had a scrapbook of memories she wanted to make sense of, to understand what she hadn’t back then. “Were you two a couple? I know you like girls.”

“I sure do.” She put her paws on the railing, staring at the city below. “But Nancy and I weren’t together. She was shy, and I thought of her like a little sister. Wanted to protect her.”

“Oh.” Rita was glad it was dark so the collie couldn’t see her embarrassment. “That makes so much sense. We just assumed… Dodger and I thought… you know.”

“Is that why he never made a move on Nancy?”

“Yeah. You were a friend, and he doesn’t steal from friends.”

“He should’ve. Nancy liked him for ages. Heck, she still does.”

“So was that your question?”

“Nope. What I wanna know is… what’s between ya and Dodger?”

Rita groaned and slid to the metal floor of the landing. If this was just girl talk, like when she and Nancy used to gossip about which breed was the handsomest — Rita said a classic German Shepherd, Nancy favored the spotted Australian cattle dog — then that would’ve been fine. But it wasn’t just girl talk with Charlie. There was another shade that made her heart beat and her nerves flare. “Oh, geez… Dodger and me… we flirted a lot.”

“Yeah, ya did.” Charlie’s smile seemed forced. “All tha time.”

“But it never amounted to anything. He was fun. We were young.”

“Ya still young,” the collie laughed. “He is fun, ain’t he?”

“Sure, but Charlie… listen, girl, Dodger is… Dodger is over. Things have changed.” Rita looked at the yellow taxi cabs and nighttime jaywalkers on the streets below the fire escape. It all changed so quickly, one minute you were at the light, the next you zoomed away. “Dodger and the Company will always be friends, but he’s going a different direction now.”

“And ya’d rather be with tha Company than with him?”

“I’d pick the Company any day. They’re my responsibility.”

“Here I thought tha Dodge was president.” The admiration in her eyes was unmistakable. “Ya always been leader material. Ya take charge. I’m too flaky.”

“Flaky?” Rita repeated, staring at her curiously. The dogs were silent as she mulled over Charlie’s words, then she asked, “Why are ya here and not in Harlem?”

Charlie sighed, laid down, and stuck her nose through the railing bars. “Truth is we went different directions, too. For so long it was me, Nancy, and Noah, but something changed.”

“What?” Rita whispered. “What happened?”

“Dodger happened.” A forlorn smile. “Lemme tell ya about it…”

* * *

A few days prior, the early November winds blew their way downstairs into the abandoned subway station that Charlie, Nancy, and Noah called home. Usually they all huddled close together to keep warm, but today, they were all several feet apart.

It was a restless late morning, like they’d all overslept and woken cranky. They’d endured the thunderous thousand feet of the morning rush above — it came daily, but it sure aggravated — and all three were bristling their fur.

“Why are ya so quiet, Nancy?” Charlie said. “I don’t like silence.”

She stared at her friend aghast. “I’m always quiet.”

“Yeah, but today ya seem extra… I dunno. Broody. Mopey.”

“Mopey?” Nancy stood up and shook her dirty-gold fur indignantly. “Being quiet doesn’t mean I’m moping.” She raised an eyebrow. “Why are ya always so blunt?”

“Blunt?” Charlie scoffed. She shook her head. “Wait… I know. Ya thinking about him, ain’t ya? Ya been in love ever since he showed up in Harlem.”

“Why do ya gotta pick a fight when ya bored?” Nancy spat at her.

The girls’ quarrel made them forget there was a third dog in the subway station, a boy who hadn’t said anything till now, had lingered in the shadows, but now that he came into the light, he sure was huge. “Both of ya, be quiet.” Noah didn’t usually growl. It wasn’t his nature. “I can’t hear myself think.” Overhead, the station light flickered weakly.

When he growled, they stopped talking. Charlie and Nancy may have been at odds with each other, but it was every female’s instinct to stand beside another female when the males became aggressive, no matter how long they’d known him, no matter the girls’ quarrel. 

For the past few days, Noah had been acting strange. He spoke less than usual, and when he did, he was muttering to himself in the corner of the station. Often he went above ground for many hours at a time. They’d catch him saying things like, “They’re coming for us…” or “Pure… who’s pure, anyways? How do they know?” and other unnerving whispers.

So although they’d known Noah most of their lives, when he growled at them, Charlie and Nancy dropped everything to protect each other from masculine rage.

“There are more important things to worry about than who likes who!” Noah barked now. “Tha Purebreds are coming for every mutt in tha city! Don’t ya get that?”

“Sure, pal, but what can we do?” Charlie asked slowly.

“I don’t want ya to get hurt, that’s all. I don’t want him hurt.”

Nancy asked in a hushed voice, “What are ya talking about?”

“We ain’t gonna get hurt. Harlem’s a long way north of tha Battery.”

“They won’t stop till tha whole island’s pure!”

The girls were sufficiently creeped out. The Bullmastiff didn’t say anything else like that, but he didn’t say anything else the rest of the day, just sat in the shadowed corner. He was the friendly protector type, had never made a move on either of them, and they loved having him around, but now they didn’t know what to think. Their fears didn’t last long.

The next morning, Noah had disappeared. Fear became worry.

They never went looking for him, figured that if he wanted to come home, he knew where the station was. But Charlie became convinced that he left to fight the Purebreds himself, or to join some resistance movement. He may’ve been acting odd, but he was still a friend.

After that, Nancy and Charlie didn’t speak much to each other. They worried that their spat had driven him off and both felt guilty; one day the rain came down hard and puddles accumulated in the subway station, and they were more miserable than ever.

The morning after the rain, Nancy announced she was leaving, too. “Ya right. I have been thinking about him.” She didn’t sound angry, just weary. “We had something.”

“Ya don’t know him. He plays girls like piano keys.”

“He’s grown since. He told me there was a Fifth Avenue mansion he liked to visit, north of tha Met, yellow brick and flower beds. I’m gonna find it. I’m gonna wait for him.”

“Nancy,” the collie called. “I don’t want him breaking ya heart.”

The golden girl smiled. “Thanks for looking out for me.” Then she climbed the stairs out of the station, paws splashing through rainwater, and she was gone.

Charlie was alone as the morning rush began above ground, loud as ever.

* * *

It was nearly morning by the time the doorknob wiggled, the key clicked, and Fagin walked into his tiny apartment — well, more like staggered in. He had that odd smell about him, his face was red, and his eyes glassy. “Hullo, fellas,” he slurred, then hiccuped.

He somehow made it to his recliner without falling. The Company, who’d all woken up when their owner came home, crowded around him. Rita and Charlie had returned to the apartment not longer after the collie told her story. Everyone else had been asleep, and they’d gotten a few hours of sleep themselves until Fagin stumbled in.

“Sorry about this, guys.” He wrung his fingers into his coat pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. Fagin took one out, held it between his lips, and lit the end. The dogs were thankful he didn’t light himself on fire by mistake. “It’s just that work… I did my best, but I guess they found my… my record…”

He inhaled too quickly and the smoke made him sputter. “Now I… I gotta find a new job. But where?” Fagin’s eyes were watery. “I don’t want us to get evicted.”

Einstein whimpered and placed his head in Fagin’s lap, slobber and all. But Fagin never minded his drool. He yawned and scratched Einy’s chin absentmindedly.

His voice cracked on his next words. “Dodger’s not coming back, is he?”

The dogs all shook their heads.

Fagin sighed and took another puff. “Maybe he was smart to leave. Wouldn’t be tha first. Oliver didn’t stay, and before him we lost Noah and Nancy and…” He sat up in his chair. Fagin thought the alcohol was making him hallucinate, but when the black-and-white collie put her wet nose in his outstretched hand, she felt real enough. “...Charlie? Ya came back.”

Charlie woofed happily, licking his fingers. That made him giggle. “Oh, wow, Charlie, it’s been too long! What brings ya here, ya tomboy? Did ya miss ya old pals?”

She stood beside Rita proudly, and the rest of the Company couldn’t help but smile when they saw how happy she made Fagin. They all decided to drop the resentment — what mattered was they were a large gang once again. Fagin chuckled, yawned again, and shut his eyes. “Don’t be gone when I wake up, okay, girl? Don’t be a dream.”

He put the cigarette out in an ashtray on a nightstand. Fagin’s eyes opened a peep to make sure his dogs were all there, and when he saw they were safe and sound, he closed them again. Soon Fagin was snoring. Jobs, rent, and bills could wait a little longer.

The Company looked at each other with uncertainty, then they too decided that stress could be handled later. For now, they were happy to be off the streets, together. 

“I missed this tha most,” Charlie whispered, watching them all settle down for some more sleep. Francis and Tito, Annie and Einstein, and her beside Rita. An apartment beat an abandoned subway station anyday. “Do ya think I could… rejoin tha gang?”

The dogs all exchanged looks. “That would be up to the leader,” Francis said.

“But if Dodger’s gone,” Einstein said slowly, “who is our leader?”

Tito puffed his little chest out. “Very well, if ya insist! I accept tha nomination.”

“We’re poor, not desperate,” Francis drawled. The Chihuahua snorted like a bull.

“Well, if ya ask me…” Charlie said, “...I think it should be Rita.”

Francis nodded approvingly. “I second that idea.”

Now everyone was looking her way, and although her headache throbbed worse than ever, she fought it back to smile at her friends. Her family. She’d meant what she said about choosing the Company over Dodger, about them being her responsibility. When Dodger had led the gang, he’d often asked her for advice — she was the natural choice. Rita nodded her bushy brown head. “Okay, guys, if you all agree.” They all woofed. “I’ll do it.”

Charlie beamed at her. “How about it, President Rita? Can I join full-time?”

Rita rolled her eyes. “You nominated me cause you knew I’d say yes.”

“I nominated ya cause ya tha best dog for tha job. And I knew ya’d say yes.”

There might’ve been cracks in the walls, boards over the windows, and mold in the bathroom, but there was a dim happiness in that apartment. Rita stood tall before their eyes, and while she was afraid of letting them down, their admiration reassured her that she’d do just fine. They returned to the couch and mattress, smiles on everyone’s faces. They knew Fagin would find a way through. He’d dealt with worse before.

The only dog not smiling was dusty old Annie, who gingerly stepped towards Rita. “If ya tha leader, then I have a confession.” She bowed her scruffy head. She looked so much like Dodger — same eyes, same spots, only different-colored fur — that it always unnerved Rita. She braced herself to hear what Annie had to say. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Rita’s jaw dropped. She looked between her and Einstein. “Are they Einy’s?”

“No, not his,” Annie sighed. “It was from tha streets… I didn’t realize until recently. I didn’t know when ya found me, otherwise I never woulda imposed.”

Einstein rubbed his muzzle against her head. “I don’t care whose they are.” He licked her cheek. “I’ll take care of them. I promise.”

“That’s sweet, but Fagin, ya owner… he’s struggling, ain’t he?” Annie glanced at the man snoring in the recliner. “He can’t feed puppies. It’s not fair to him. I should just go.”

“Absolutely not.” Rita blocked the doggy door. “You’re in the Company now. You ain’t going nowhere, understand?’

Annie nodded and almost gasped for breath, a sigh of joy and disbelief. She laid on the mattress beside Einstein, and he put his nose on her stomach, which was indeed slightly rounded. Rita had thought her weight gain was from getting regular meals, but turned out there was more to the story. The old dogs had such tenderness between them — she thought how wonderful it was that Einy had someone his own age in the gang — that Rita knew it’d be a happy story.

She had to believe they’d be okay. That Fagin would find a new job, that he’d pay rent on time, that he’d stop drinking and smoking, that they could afford puppies.

She was the leader. She had to believe it.


	8. "The Stranger"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving is a day for gratitude, not for fighting. Dodger sneaks out to see the Macy's parade and meets Skippy Dawg, leader of the rebel Underdogs, and reunites with Nancy. The Company enjoys a humble meal, and Annie has one wish.

Mr. Foxworth had given his family one of his grandiose fatherly talks before he left for work that morning. This one had been about the importance of being thankful, about how they should appreciate each other and what they had. Easy for a billionaire CEO to say.

But that Thanksgiving morning, when he and a certain show-winning poodle got into yet another fight, Dodger wasn’t exactly feeling grateful. “Yeah, so what if I am?”

“I’m just saying,” Georgette snarked, “that mutts don’t have the same appeal.”

“Oh, and why’s that? Is it tha fur? Don’t say it’s tha fur,” he growled.

“You’re all just so, well… mismatched. No other way to say it.”

“Ya wanna know what’s mismatched?” Now he really was growling, not that he would fight her — Georgette wasn’t worth the effort, and Mrs. Foxworth would kick him out for sure — but he was done. He was so done. “Tha fact that rich brats like ya get to live in castles while tha rest of us freeze in winter. Think ya tha _creme de la creme_? Ya just spoiled milk.” Dodger spat at her feet. “Ya no better than tha Purebreds.”

“Oh, are we forgetting that you live in this castle too? A month now, is it? Goodness, how time flies when you’re…” She fixed him with a sardonic scowl, “...having fun.”

“And it’s high time I took a break. Go drown in ya water bowl.”

He charged down the grand staircase and dashed into the living room. He felt like ripping up pillows, destroying shoes, an urge he hadn’t had since his puppy days. His bandana was blue, but he was seeing red. All he could hear in his mind, over and over again, was the terrifying snarl of Ruscoe saying how scraggly his fur was… were those brown spots or mud… and what kind of terrier was he, anyways? Anger and shame rolled like thunder in his chest.

The only thing that snapped him out of it was seeing Oliver on the sofa, concern in his feline eyes. He gingerly hopped down and brushed against his best friend.

“Dodge… I heard you yelling.” He sniffled. “Are you gonna leave?”

“For good? No, never. I just…” Dodger didn’t speak for several seconds. “I don’t know. I just wanna go out… see the city again… stretch my legs. Is that so wrong?” 

“No, it’s fine to want to… but what would you do out there?”

His eyes lit up. “Oh, what wouldn’t I do? I’d head to tha Meatpacking District first, they got tha best sausages, then I’d walk across tha Brooklyn Bridge. I’d catch a taxi Uptown an’ check out tha Upper West — haven’t been there in a while. Might even find Old Louie, for old times’ sake. Steal some all-beef kosher franks. What’s not to do?”

Oliver’s gaze was fixed on the window. It looked like it might rain soon.

“Ya don’t approve.” Dodger whimpered. “Ya don’t understand.”

“I just don’t have the same memories you do. I wish you could be happier here.”

“Kiddo,” the mutt said with his signature grin, “I’m totally happy here. I’ll be back before they cut tha turkey, ‘kay? That’s a Dodger promise.”

Winston had spent all morning in the kitchen, cooking up carrots, green beans and a cranberry sauce. The turkey had been stuffed, seasoned, and shoved in the oven since the early hours of the day. It smelled heavenly, and it was almost enough to keep a dog inside. Almost.

“I will be back, kid,” he said when the cat still didn’t look convinced. “Just gonna check out tha Macy’s parade. Steal a bite to eat, hit on some girls. Casual fun.”

Oliver nodded, and Dodger jumped up on the windowsill. The Foxworths had left the window open, not thinking that any of their pets would ever escape. It’d been nearly a month and Dodger hadn’t left… until now. He squeezed out, landed on a flower bed, and was gone.

Some days Oliver didn’t know what to do without Dodger. Some days he didn’t know what to do with him. He hoped today wasn’t the latter.

* * *

Dodger was having a grand time. He was whipping through the crowds up and down Sixth Avenue, who were wrapped in coats and jackets, drinking warm beverages and eating hot sandwiches, hotdogs, and pretzels to fight off the cold. That was Dodger’s favorite part of festivities in New York City — they were a smorgasbord of food.

He wolfed down a hotdog he’d taken out of a man’s hands, who’d been too busy staring at the balloons to notice. By the time he took a bite and only got a bun, no meat, Dodger was already gone, cackling to himself. “This parade gets better every year.”

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was in full swing. Performers wore bright costumes, dancing in troupes and playing instruments in marching bands, waving to the tourists and families they passed. The announcers proudly declared this performance, in the good year of 1988, to be the 62nd annual Macy’s parade. 

Children laughed to see their favorite cartoon characters in massive balloon form, floating hundreds of feet above the ground. Dodger looked up and saw an enormous squeaky-voiced Mickey Mouse, who wore pants but no shirt, and his angry pal Donald Duck, who wore a shirt but no pants. “Always indecent, huh, Donald?” He stared at giant balloon Mickey. “That don’t look like any mouse I’ve ever seen.”

Dodger chuckled and navigated further down the street. They were almost to Macy’s Herald Square, which marked the end of the parade. He’d met several dogs on leashes, even a stray here and there, but no pure breeds so far. “Guess tha Purebreds ain’t tha type to give thanks.” Then he turned the corner and feared he’d spoken too soon.

His blood froze when he saw the burly black Rottweiler covered in old scars and wearing a spiked collar. He seemed as big as a parade balloon. He looked like a bull in the shape of a dog, minus the horns. He and two other dogs, so small in comparison, were chowing down on discarded burgers. The Rottweiler looked up at the intruder.

“Hey, look, I’ll just go. I ain’t fighting tha Purebreds on a holiday.”

Dodger quickly turned to leave the alley, but the Rottweiler barked.

“Wait a sec!” His every step thundered as he approached Dodger, who was rigid with fear. The Rottweiler sniffed him curiously, then he broke into a slobbery grin. “I ain’t no Purebred. Well, technically I am, but ya can’t help what ya born, right?”

“Ya not in their gang?” Dodger frowned. “Sorry, I just assumed. Ya look, uh…”

“Scarier than an unpaid landlord? I get that a lot.” 

The two dogs sniffed noses, and sensing nothing but welcome from each other, any remaining defenses dropped and they woofed together happily. This monstrously huge dog — his body covered in more scars than any dog should ever have — exuded friendliness.

The Rottweiler invited him to enjoy their unwanted hamburgers, and Dodger gratefully accepted. When they were full, they belched and laughed. “I oughta introduce myself,” the Rottweiler said. “Tha name’s Skipper, but everyone on tha streets calls me Skippy Dawg. Ya can call me whatever, just not Skip, got it?” His deep laugh echoed down the alley.

“Alrighty then, Skippy,” he laughed himself. “My name is Dodger. Ya might’ve heard me called tha Dodge, or tha Artful Dodger, or tha coolest dog on this concrete island.”

“Dodger? Yeah, I have heard of ya. Stories ain’t always flattering.”

“Libel and slander. Can’t believe everything ya hear.”

“I believe it,” he chuckled. Skippy Dawg nodded for him to follow them further down the alley, and he surprised himself by doing so. Skippy’s friendly demeanor couldn’t quite bury Dodger's learned mistrust, so he hung back a few paces.

Their group came to a metal fence blocking their exit. Skippy dog threw his weight on it and budged an opening. When they’d all slipped through, they descended into a parking garage. They kept out of view, away from moving cars, until they reached the lowest level. Skippy looked back at Dodger. “Earlier ya said something about fighting tha Purebreds, didn’t ya?” He nodded approvingly. “That’s exactly tha kind of attitude we need.”

“Need for what?” Dodger wondered what he’d gotten himself into now.

“Tha resistance. Tha rebels. Or as I like to call us… tha Underdogs.”

Dodger took a good look at their shadowed corner on the bottom level of the parking garage; he realized it was a makeshift base. A stack of crates and a chain-link fence separated them from the few parked cars. There were piles of stolen vendor food to snack on, heaps of torn clothing and newspapers to sleep on, and there were dogs. About fifteen were down there, big and small, and most looked tired and hungry but content. Several were males who’d make good fighters, but there were mothers and pups, too. The best part was they were mutts.

“I’ve been finding mutts who got run off by tha Purebreds. Got a couple spots all over tha city where we stay safe. One is tha basement of a theatre north of Broadway. Another is deep in Central Park, tha castle by tha lake. Anyone can be an Underdog, pure or mongrel.”

“This is amazing… but ya really planning to fight back? It’s dangerous.”

“What’s more dangerous is what happens if we don’t fight back.”

Both of their eyes went to the mothers and their pups, their happy mutt babies.

“If someone ya love is in danger, ya gotta fight with all ya got to protect them.” Skippy gazed at the dogs under his protection with resolve and affection. “Tha Purebreds operate by spreading fear and division. They know calling mutts inferior pits dog against dog… that’s what they want. They want us fighting each other. If we’re divided, they win.”

He nodded at the Rottweiler’s words, which echoed through the parking garage. He remembered his morning argument with Georgette with a twinge of guilt.

Then Dodger’s mind flooded with the memory of being attacked, chased, and thrown off the Brooklyn Bridge by the Purebreds. Even earlier, by being bitten and beaten by Roscoe and DeSoto. Before that, fighting to survive the streets. Dog fights were nasty things, full of claw and fang, and he didn’t want anyone getting hurt that didn’t have to. But then again, if the Purebreds wouldn’t stop, what choice did they have? It was resist or submit. No other option.

“Resist or submit,” he voiced. Then he asked what he’d been wondering since Skippy brought up their enemy. “How do ya know so much about tha Purebreds?”

He was quiet. “Truth is… I used to be one.” Skippy bowed his head, shame in his eyes. “Running with tha strongest was how I survived. Me and Ruscoe grew up together. Were in tha fighting ring together. I thought we were friends… but he got power-hungry. Liked giving orders a bit too much. I was a high-ranking member of tha pack, but when he started hurting mutts, that’s when I quit. I knew Ruscoe had to be stopped before it’s too late.”

Dodger couldn’t imagine being betrayed by someone you’d grown up with, someone you thought was your friend… then he felt guilty again, thinking of the Company.

He narrowed his eyes at the purebred Rottweiler, privileged by his breeding — but that was a mean thought. He liked Skippy no matter his pedigree. “I’m glad ya defected.”

They mingled with the dogs in the parking garage, nibbling on scraps, resting their paws, when Dodger caught a familiar scent. It belonged to a girl he used to know, a sweet Spaniel mix with golden fur he knew from another lifetime. “Nancy babe! What are ya doing here?”

“Dodger, I can’t believe it!” she beamed. Her coat was dirty but she was beautiful as ever. “I was looking for ya, actually. Tried to find ya on Fifth Avenue, but I got lost. Tha Underdogs found me.” She nuzzled him, then backed off and blushed. “I’m so happy to see ya.”

That was the most words he’d heard her say at once, and it’d been for him, about him — did that mean that she… could she? Butterflies in his tummy was an understatement.

“Me too, Nancy babe.” He nuzzled her back. “I’m thankful.”

Skippy laughed heartily. “Almost forgot it’s Thanksgiving.” He smiled at their embrace, smiled over all the dogs in the garage. “I’m thankful we’re alive and well.”

Dodger licked her cheek. “Ya look half-starved. Come home with me. My new family will give ya tha best Thanksgiving dinner ya ever had. What do ya say?”

“Oh, Dodger… are ya sure? They won’t mind?”

“Course they won’t. Who could turn away a pretty face like ya?”

She turned her head and batted her eyes, and with her lovely long ears and honey-colored fur, Dodger felt more than butterflies. Nancy made him remember all the good times on Fagin’s houseboat he thought he’d forgotten. She was quiet when he was loud, clever when he was rash, humble when he was proud. He’d never realized how much she balanced him.

“Dinner does sound good,” she giggled. “Okay, let’s go.”

Nancy followed him to the parking garage exit, and having her walk so close to him sent tingles down his spine. Before they were gone, Dodger turned back to Skippy Dawg and all the mutts in his care. “Listen, Skippy. About tha Underdogs.”

“Will ya join us?” the Rottweiler woofed. “Fight tha Purebreds?”

“Man, it’s a holiday. I wanna resist, but for now… I wanna be with my family.”

“Fair enough,” he sighed. “Well, ya know where to find us. When ya ready.”

Dodger nodded. Once more he felt those horrible pangs of guilt, but the fear of Ruscoe’s fangs was still in him. He was a medium-sized dog, not a huge fighter like Skippy or Rusoce.

He was one dog. What difference could he make?

* * *

The table was set with green beans, sweet potatoes, and carrots on one end, pumpkin pie and chocolate cake on the other. Between the vegetables and desserts were mashed potatoes with hot gravy, rolls fresh out of the oven, buttered corn on the cob, and a platter of cranberry sauce. An enormous turkey, carved and stuffed to perfection, was the centerpiece.

The Foxworth family was gathered around the table, only the husband, wife, daughter, and an aunt and uncle who lived in the city, as well as Winston the butler and his equally plump, ever-smiling wife, who were both as good as family. Mr. Foxworth had promised no business colleagues this year, and he’d kept his promise.

They all laughed when Mr. Foxworth accidentally dipped his tie in the gravy bowl. Winston offered to fetch him a new one, but Jenny said it was more fashionable this way.

“What a sweet family,” Nancy sighed. “Ya real lucky, ya know?”

“Yeah. Guess I am.” Dodger scratched behind his ear nervously.

At the Foxworth residence, animals ate as good as humans. They’d set several large bowls of delicious wet dog food, cuts of turkey and gravy, many strips of bacon, and a water dish in a circle. Dodger and Nancy shared the feast with Oliver and Georgette.

When Dodger had returned to the mansion, he’d barked to get the family’s attention — and show them the lovely golden mutt hiding behind the front flowers. Mr. Foxworth made an easy joke about Dodger bringing ladies home with him, which Mrs. Foxworth elbowed him for; she was fawning over Nancy. It was impossible not to, she was so sweet.

They’d made no decision about her yet, but she was welcome to the feast.

After a day of parades and renegades, Dodger was relieved to be home safe and sound. These walls were a comfort, not a prison — a shock to discover. He wanted to be happy here. If not here, where else could he possibly be content? Dodger held his breath.

“Hey, Champ,” he said, barely looking Georgette in the eyes, “maybe it’s just tha turkey talking, but… sorry we got into it this morning. Ya wrong, but I’m still sorry.”

Georgette sighed. “Perhaps I was being… intentionally provocative.” She rolled her eyes exquisitely. “I’m sorry too. Mutts are perfectly good canines.”

“We sure are,” he grinned. “And perfect isn’t easy.”

For the rest of the feast, it felt like a fog had been lifted and the pets gobbled their meat and gravy and were happy to be around each other. Dodger’s tail wagged to be beside his little bro Oliver, to have made up with Georgette, and to have brought Nancy home.

He only hoped it wasn’t till the end of the meal. When the Foxworths were done eating, had brought their dishes to the kitchen, and packaged all the leftovers — they had a tradition of taking leftovers to homeless shelters — they turned their attention to Nancy.

“Did you like the food, girl?” Mr. Foxworth scratched her chin.

“She’s adorable.” Mrs. Foxworth was radiant. “I think Dodger’s in love.”

The two mutts exchanged a look of nervous excitement. They barked in unison.

“I know we have two dogs and a cat,” Mrs. Foxworth began, grabbing her husband’s arm and kissing his cheek, “but I couldn’t live with myself if we put her back on the streets.”

“What kind of people would we be? On Thanksgiving, no less.” He bent down, his back hurting only slightly, and picked up the golden dog. She licked his face, cradled like a newborn. “Of course she can stay. Why don’t we name her… Goldie?”

“That’s so cute!” Jenny laughed, kissing her newest four-legged friend.

While they were welcoming her, Dodger was gazing at them all with a funny feeling in his stomach. He realized that this must’ve been how Skippy Dawg felt gazing at the Underdogs in their garage, the ones he protected. He knew that if anything happened to any of them, he couldn’t live with himself. Then he remembered Skippy’s words.

If someone you love is in danger, you’ve got to fight with all you’ve got to protect them.

As scary as Ruscoe was, as cozy as the mansion was, Skippy was right.

Because the Foxworth family was busy showing Nancy — or Goldie — around her new home, and because Dodger was following her like a lovesick pup and Georgette was looking at herself in the mirror, no one noticed Oliver slip into the kitchen. He grabbed a sizable bite of turkey in his maw, glanced back, and leapt out the sink window.

It was quite dark by now; an early night overtook the city, but with street lamps, building lights, car beams, and shop windows, it was better lit than during the day. Oliver walked to the back of the Fifth Avenue mansion. “Adena? Are you there?”

A calico cat with emerald eyes poked her head out of a flower bush. “Hello again, Ollie.” The nickname almost made him drop the turkey from smiling too wide. “Right on time.”

“I didn’t want you to go hungry on Thanksgiving.” Oliver did drop the turkey now, but at her paws. He brushed against her warmly. “You’re so cold.”

“Eh, I’m used to it.” She began gnawing at the meat. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Oh, anytime! Anything you need — Anything I can do.” He gulped and grinned.

Adena leaned forward and licked his cheek. Oliver nearly fainted.

“I finally got you out of that stuffy mansion,” she giggled. “Not so bad, is it?”

“No, it’s kinda… kinda exciting.” Oliver gazed at the city lights all around him.

“It’s totally exciting. And if you’re smart, you don’t get hurt.” 

“Well… it doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe one day I could… we could...” He smiled sheepishly, looking back at the mansion. Then at her. “...explore.”

“It’s a date,” she whispered. “I don’t talk about feelings, not ever, but… I really like you, Ollie. You’re sweeter than anyone I’ve ever met on the streets.”

He could’ve sworn his fur melted off on the spot. Oliver licked her in return, then he said he’d better go back inside but promised to go out with her soon. She ate the rest of the turkey and vanished around the corner again, but this time, she winked before she was gone.

* * *

In a shabby third-floor Bronx apartment, a part of town most people avoided, an unshaven man was kneeling on the floor with six dogs around him. Fagin’s achy bones would make him regret sitting down, but so what? He liked seeing his children at eye level.

“Here ya go, fellas,” he wheezed, his breath a mixture of cigarettes and breath mints. The former overpowered the latter. Fagin had set out plastic tupperware with food for the dogs. “Not much of a feast, but it’s being together that counts, ain’t it?”

He had nicked a few cans of wet dog food, the tasty kind, and poured extra kibble. There were hamburgers, bagels, and for the centerpiece, a plate of microwavable sausages. Ever since he’d found a microwave in a dumpster, Fagin had been eating nothing but frozen meals.

“Happy Thanksgiving, guys.” He wiped his wet eyes. “We’re gonna be okay.”

The Company touched their noses to him, bringing a smile to his face.

Their numbers had grown in recent months, even if they’d lost Dodger — the gang included Rita, Charlie, Francis, Tito, Einstein, and Annie, and if you counted the puppies the old mother had on the way, their numbers were even bigger. Knowing how pregnant she was, the Company allowed Annie more food than the rest of them. Einy made sure of it.

She was several weeks along now. Annie’s stomach had swelled to twice its normal size, and she often said she felt the litter kicking. None of the gang were experts in puppy birth, but they figured she was about halfway to the big day. Another month or so.

“This is so good,” Annie laughed. Her voice sounded creaky. “I guess food tastes better when you’re expecting, huh?” She and Einstein nuzzled each other.

Seeing them together warmed Rita’s heart. The senior dogs had only known each other a couple months, but Einstein and Annie had taken to each other like peanut butter and jelly. They often laid on the couch together, her looking so small next to him, his nose on her head. They stayed up late talking about their youths, their lives, or simple silliness.

“This is the best Thanksgiving ever,” Einy said with a huge grin. He and Annie devoured a burger together, then he licked her stomach. They weren’t his, but you’d never know.

“Who needs a fancy spread to be happy?” Charlie woofed.

“Hear, hear,” Francis cheered. “We have each other, don’t we?”

“Wouldn’t mind a real turkey though,” Tito grumbled. Francis elbowed him.

“We got everything we need right here.” Rita smiled at the dogs in her care.

They all enjoyed the rest of the feast, eating all the sausages in a minute and scarfing down the burgers and wet food. They gulped tap water from two big tupperwares. The apartment was always a bit cold, but the dogs knew they’d sleep warm and full that night.

Fagin took a hamburger, but that was all he ate. He staggered to his feet, groaning about his knees and back, and knelt over the kitchen counter. There he flipped through a stack of bills, notices about late rent payments and overdue utilities. He shoved them in a drawer, trudged to his mattress, and collapsed like a falling tree.

Einstein whined to see him so exhausted. Annie nuzzled him and he was quiet. She laid her head across his legs, a faraway look in her eyes. “I’m so thankful ya guys took me in… I wanna say I have everything I want, but to be honest… I don’t.”

“What’s missing?” Einstein asked quietly. His ears drooped.

“Well, I wish…” Annie closed her eyes. “...I wish my son would forgive me.”

The Company didn’t say anything. There was nothing they could say.

“I understand why Dodger is angry, I know it’s all my fault, but still… if he stays angry, he’s only gonna hurt himself.” Annie seemed so weary, like a flickering candle growing dimmer and dimmer. “I just wanna see him again. I’m an old girl, and I dunno how much longer…” She sniffled and bowed her head. “If he forgave me, I could die happy.”

“Don’t say that, sister.” Rita frowned. “You got pups to live for.”

Annie nodded but said nothing. She just laid on Einy’s legs, eyes shut.

Rita stared at her in wonder and worry. The rest of the gang had settled down for the night, sleeping on the rug, the couch, or tucked beside Fagin on the mattress, but she didn’t think she’d be able to fall asleep. Rita turned her eyes to the window, a plan in her head.

As leader of the Company, she was responsible for her gang’s happiness.


	9. "All About Soul"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmastime in the city, and Annie has three new pups. Dodger has a merry Christmas with his new family, then Rita arrives to reunite him with his old one. Dodger makes up with the Company, but can he make things right with his mother?

Outside the boarded windows, pure white drifted through the night sky. Inside the dingy Bronx apartment, water in dog bowls and along the bottom of the faucets was foggy with a chill. There must’ve been fifty blankets in that single room, anything Fagin could find in dumpsters or alleys that wasn’t completely filthy. 

The unshaven man was red-faced again and nearly fell as he hobbled to the wall. He flipped the lightswitch and groaned when it didn’t work. “I’m sorry, fellas…” he slurred, slumping into his chair and burrowing under blankets and jackets. 

Without electricity, it was pitch black at night — except for the light of street lamps and the luminous snowfall outside — but the dogs could get around fine with their noses. They shivered, their breath visible, but Fagin had given each several blankets to keep warm. Fortunately, it was so cold that it didn’t matter that the fridge’s power was down.

Einstein nosed over to a pillow-and-blanket for, where Rita stood guard. “How is she? Is she, uh… is she good? She have enough food?” 

“She’s fine.” Rita smiled for her friend. “She’s gonna be just fine.”

“Don’t fret yourself, old chum,” Francis said. “Annie will be perfectly all right. Here, have a little holiday nip. It’ll warm your soul.”

Tito’s teeth chattered. “I need more than _mi alma se calentó_!”

Frankie’s holiday drink was really rainwater Fagin had collected in jars outside, but make-believe was just as tasty. Einy took a gulp and grinned wide. It disappeared the instant Annie made a moan of pain from inside the pillow fort.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Rita said. “Totally normal. She’ll be like this a while.”

“Reminds me why I never want pups,” Charlie shuddered.

“Don’t think you’d be a good mother?” Rita nuzzled the collie.

“Nah, too much hassle. I mean, what would I get them for Christmas?”

They looked out the window again at the snow, the decorations strung on fences below, and the wreaths on doors. The Bronx wasn’t as festive as downtown Manhattan, but people tried their best to keep the Christmas spirit. There were two weeks until the big day.

But for Annie, the big day was today. She whined and whimpered again, straining to push, and it hurt so much to hear that Rita wished she could do something to make it better. She remembered Annie's only wish.

Her thoughts were broken by the loudest scream yet, then a gasp and a sigh, then the soft squeals of tiny newborn puppies taking their first breaths in the world. Rita disappeared into the fort, bringing three more blankets with her, one for each. “Three pups, guys,” she said when she reemerged. “Three little cuties, two boys and a girl, and Annie looks good.”

Einstein was the first to cautiously nose into the pillow fort. From outside, all they could see was his gray haunches, but his tail began to wag with delight. When Rita was satisfied that the old mother needed nothing else, she buried herself in blankets with her friends. The Company huddled together for warmth — her and Charlie, Tito and Francis, and Einstein with Annie and her three puppies. They were such a sweet family, mother, babies, and adopted father, but Rita couldn’t shake that nagging thought — that brother was missing.

She couldn’t get her gang any gifts that year, not the material kind anyways. She looked to where Fagin slept; at the foot of his recliner lay the Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap.

Maybe she could get Annie a Christmas present after all.

* * *

The first flake that feathered onto his nose that bright morning made Oliver’s whole face scrunch up. “That’s cold!” The next thing he knew, there were a hundred of them in the sky. “Big bro, what is this? It’s like rain but not… rainy.”

He was miffed when Dodger began chuckling; it was a perfectly legitimate question. “Sorry, kid, forgot ya a spring baby… It’s called snow.” The dog sat beside the cat on the front steps of the mansion. “Come around every winter. Doubt this’ll stick, though.”

Dodger was quickly proven wrong. In an hour, Fifth Avenue had disappeared under a blanket of soft snow and they were both shivering as they sunk their paws in. Oliver felt like he was a minute away from frostbite. When he wasn’t looking, Dodger yelled, “Avalanche!” and pushed a pile of snow on top of him. Oliver popped out while the dog laughed like a maniac. “No fair, I wasn’t ready!” They ran through the drift, kicking snow at each other in a glorious fight. Jenny watched them from the windowsill, smiling contentedly.

Her parents had determined to give her the best Christmas of her life this year.

She used to wake up and rush downstairs, eager to sort out her presents from the pile, but this morning she had walked, not ran, and sat patiently on the sofa. The pile of gifts was even bigger this year. She saw her name on every tag. Their Christmas tree was dazzling, second only to the one in Rockefeller Plaza, and even it was barely big enough to cover them all.

She received several new dresses, a pair of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, a coloring set, a Rubix cube, and more books than she could count. She thanked her parents, hugged them, and hid her tears. They assumed she loved her gifts, and Jenny didn’t want to correct them.

Her smile had been genuine when she saw the pets’ presents. Oliver got endless toys, fancy food, and a pack of catnip that he’d gone to work sniffing. It put him in a groovy mood. “Ya get drugs? Where are my drugs? Where’s tha dognip?” Dodger protested.

Dodger was given bones, a rubber ball, and a fancy leash for walks in the park. He’d been pleased and grateful, but he couldn’t stop staring at the leash. He stared and stared.

Nancy received similar chew-toys and bones, as well as a cute sweater Winston knitted for her. Well, truthfully it’d been for Georgette, but the poodle had refused to wear it.

“Is this ALL I’m getting this year?” she’d shrieked. Georgette had been gifted with new designer outfits and one — that’s right, only one — picture of herself. It wasn’t even a good picture. The quality was grainy and the frame was brass, not gold.

“I’m sorry, Georgette, but you’re not our only pet anymore.” Mrs. Foxworth consoled her champion poodle, who looked ready to pass out.

It’d been a delightful Christmas morning. They had a splendid breakfast of croissants, eggs, fruit, and bacon, and they planned on a light lunch so they’d all have room for a magnificent feast later that night. Normally the Foxworths would go to a dinner party with their business colleagues, but like every year, Jenny asked her parents to stay home for a quiet evening of gingerbread and eggnog by the fire instead. This year, they finally agreed.

Oliver and Dodger ran through the snow like hooligans, barking and meowing with joy, leaving full-body impressions of snow-cats and snow-dogs. The cat climbed onto the windowsill where Jenny watched, then pounced on Dodger — a vengeful sneak attack, burying the dog in snow. When they were chilled to the bone, they huddled together on the steps. 

“Merry Christmas, bro,” Oliver said, teeth chattering.

“Merry Christmas, bro,” Dodger repeated.

This was the first Christmas of Oliver’s life, and it was perfect.

He didn’t know another holiday surprise was just around the corner, an old friend he hadn’t seen in months. He and Dodger were still on the front steps when who should come walking down Fifth Avenue but a brown-furred, bushy-haired Saluki with the gait of a runway model and the smile of a queen. “Rita!” the cat meowed. He dashed from the mansion’s steps to snuggle his friend’s legs, even though it meant getting in the snow again. She was a wonderful surprise present. He didn’t notice Dodger had stiffened.

“Good to see you, cat.” Rita grinned. “Look how you’ve grown! Boy, time flies.”

Now Dodger locked eyes with her. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Time flies.”

The orange tabby now rubbed against Rita, purring like an engine revving, and didn’t see that both she and the mutt were simply staring, not speaking. His purrs eventually died down, and glancing up, he realized. “Dodger… aren’t you happy to see Rita?”

His voice shook Dodger out of his trance. “Uh — Yeah, kid. Totally.”

Rita inched towards him, one paw print in the snow at a time. She looked in the open window and saw the Foxworth Christmas tree, baubles and lights galore, she saw the cozy fireplace and the comfortable sofa, and she shivered. Oliver snuggled her again for warmth. “How’s the gang doing? How’s Mr. Fagin?”

She laughed low and rubbed her nose on the cat’s head. “Everyone’s fine, kid. We’re snug as a bug in a rug.” She looked at the dog again. “Actually, Dodge… the gang is why I’m here. They — I mean, we…. we miss you. Wanna see you for the holidays.”

The reunion was interrupted by a girlish gasp of surprise and the front door swinging open. Jenny Foxworth, wrapped in a winter coat, ran out of the mansion and threw her arms around Rita’s neck. “Good to see you again, girl!” She’d brought her a strip of bacon.

The Saluki took the treat gratefully and licked the child’s face, but it was the next person out of the mansion who truly made her smile. A golden-furred Spaniel-mutt had followed Jenny out the front door, a sweet-faced girl with long fluffy ears, a friend Rita hadn’t seen in a year and a day. “Nancy! I didn’t know you lived here now. Wow, it’s been ages!”

“And ya only got prettier,” Nancy said, wagging her tail and sniffing noses.

The girls chatted a moment about their lives in the big city, how Charlie had moved in with the Company in the Bronx when Nancy had left their subway station to be with Dodger, how Noah had vanished and they were all worried, and how nothing ever stayed the same in New York. Truthfully, there was also a twinge of doubt in Nancy’s eyes as she looked back and forth from Dodger to Rita. They had an awkwardness about them, a heavy silence that could mean everything or nothing. But she wasn’t the confrontational kind of dog.

Much of this went over Oliver’s head. He hadn’t known Nancy, or Charlie or Noah for that matter, when they were members of the Company, so whatever history they exchanged was lost on him. But he’d grown fond of Nancy — she was a quiet listener, a good friend — and he smiled to see others smiling. The only one not smiling, in fact, was Dodger.

“Tha gang wants to see me?” he muttered. “For real? Ya miss me?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Rita said softly. 

“But everything’s different now. Are we still friends?”

“That’s up to you, hon. Do you still want to be friends?”

Dodger was quiet at first, then he licked the cheeks of Oliver, Nancy, and Jenny in turn. He stepped into the sidewalk, shook snow from his fur, and stood beside Rita. He didn’t have to say where he was going; Oliver already knew and it was the best Christmas present he could have asked for. He’d often asked Dodger about the Company, about how they were doing, when he would see them again, and every time Dodger avoided the question.

Not this time. He took off down the white sidewalk alongside Rita, leaving two sets of paw prints in the snow. Jenny picked Oliver up in her arms and waved him goodbye. “Come back soon, okay?” The cat got deja vu from the memory of waving Dodger off last spring, after Jenny’s birthday party. But his bro was right — things were different now.

He was glad to see Dodger with the gang again. Was it selfish to want him back already?

* * *

Conversation didn’t come easy as Rita walked through the city with her old friend. She kept thinking of silly things to say, like “What’s the food in a mansion like?” or “How many Christmas presents did you get this year?” but she knew that’d be immature, so Rita held her tongue. It wasn’t until they were nearly past Central Park that one of them spoke.

“So how’s tha, err… How’s tha Company doing?”

“Not bad. Tito’s been salsa dancing. Frankie’s gotten fatter.”

They both laughed at that and the spell of awkwardness was broken. It was as if the snow had melted into a puddle of warm water, their friendship refreshed in an instant. They admired the beauty of New York in winter, the white lining the skyscrapers, the sky blindingly bright. They took a quick detour into Central Park, where the trees were powdered.

Rita and Dodger came to a pond in the park that had frozen over, and some Christmas Day ice skaters were making circles and figure-eights on the glittering surface. He tried to get Rita on the ice, but her paws were cold enough already. “Do I look husky to you?”

He chuckled, and they settled down under a park bench instead. 

“So how are you, really?” she asked. “How’s life with Oliver?”

“Honestly, it’s amazing. They’re a great family, and I got Nancy there now, and tha kid…” He shook his head, grinning. “He’s becoming a smart mouth, believe it or not.”

She feigned surprise. “Where could he have picked that up?”

“Hey, don’t look at me. It’s all Georgette’s fault.”

To her shock, he saddled up closer to her and nuzzled her cheek. It could’ve been a fond gesture between friends, but this was Dodger. They had history. Rita gave a strained smile but slid away from him. After two months in a mansion, he smelled clean — the stench of cigarettes and exhaust smoke and stale burgers was gone. Somehow, he’d made it smell good.

She swore he could read her thoughts; the next moment, he was crawling on the concrete, racing to a hotdog vendor in the park, and spilling grease on himself. Dodger returned with a link of franks and his old familiar stink. “Dinner’s on me, babe.”

Rita ate her hotdogs, delicious as always, but almost gagged when he licked her cheek. “Uh, Dodge… What do you think you’re doing?”

“Nice to spend time together again, ain’t it?” He wiggled his eyebrows and wagged his tail, his hot breath on her face. “This is what I’ve missed tha most.”

Rita opened her mouth but no words came out. She thought of all the times she’d glanced at Einy and Annie, so sweet and gentle, and all the tears she’d cried because she was sure no guy would ever want a girl as abrasive as her. She remembered the great times she and Dodger used to have, how good it felt to be young. “I miss it too, Dodge, but we’re over.”

She rolled her eyes and his shocked expression. “I thought you’d changed, hon. Thought you were settled down with Nancy. You know she’s always loved you, right?”

“Yeah… I mean, she’s a sweetheart, I do like her, but…”

“But what? She’s too safe? Grow up, Dodger.” Rita shook her head. “Listen to me, seriously. If you don’t appreciate the good things in your life, they ain’t gonna stay in your life.”

He whimpered like a pup lectured by his mother. She half expected him to hop onto a car and ditch her, that’s what the old Dodger would’ve done, but this mutt had a navy bandana, a crimson collar, and groomed fur. He kept walking with her, not saying anything, not trying anything. Maybe she hadn’t given him enough credit.

“I like the navy blue, by the way,” she said with a quiet smile.

“It’s different,” he said, flashing it proudly, “but different don’t mean bad.”

They walked with gaiety after that, enjoying the holiday decorations. There were many people in the streets, wrapped in warm coats, holding friends and family close.

They passed Santa Claus ringing a bell beside a bucket. His beard looked fake to Rita, but the child who made his parents stop to give Santa a hug didn’t notice. The parents dropped a few bills in the bucket. Santa thanked them and kept his bell a-ringing.

“Silver bells, baby,” Dodger chuckled as it glinted in the sunlight.

“It’s Christmastime in the city.” They held out their tongues to catch snowflakes.

* * *

Dodger didn’t have good holiday memories from his puppyhood. Born in the fall of ‘85 and on his own by the time the snow was heavy, his first Christmas had been a blur he tried to forget. After a year, he was still alone on the streets, and his second Christmas had been as miserable as his first. He remembered watching families holding hands in snowy streets, seeing trees glitter through frosted windows, and whimpering.

But when the rains hit next spring, Fagin found him again and brought him home. Third time was the charm: he’d spent Christmas of ‘87 on the houseboat, surrounded by friends, still starving but starving together. Then the year was 1988.

It’d been a crazy twelve months, to say the least. Meeting Oliver in the spring changed his life; he’d been restless all summer and somehow wound up living with the Foxworths that autumn. Now Christmas was here again. Dodger was over three years old.

As he and Rita approached the shabby Bronx apartment complex, he tried to keep his mind on last year’s Christmas with the gang, how fun it’d been, but all he could think of was his first two miserable holidays on the streets. And whose fault it was.

“I can’t do this,” he said, staring up at Fagin’s boarded third-floor windows.

“But you’re already here,” Rita said softly. “Why not try?”

“But she — she’s up there. I can’t see her, Rita. I just can’t.”

“I know she abandoned you. But believe me, Dodge, she is so, so sorry.”

He bowed his head and tried to silence the screeching of car tires. He nodded.

One step, then another; they were on the first flight, then the second, and finally came to the third. They stood in front of the doggy door a full minute, then they went in.

“Hiya, gang.” His voice cracked. “Been a while.”

It was as though they’d never been apart. Tito raced up to him with delighted yaps, Frankie complimented his new bandana, Einstein gave him a slobbery lick on the head, and Charlie wagged her tail. Rita gave a pleased but weary smile. They asked “How ya been, man?” and “However is dear Oliver doing?” until barks drowned the questions. Never mind the apartment was freezing — the cheering and bouncing warmed their blood.

All the noise roused Fagin, who’d been passed out in his patchy recliner. He strained to make out their visitor — the lights were still off, and a hangover blurred his vision — but when his eyes settled, they moistened. He covered his mouth, then stooped down and held out his arms. Dodger ran into them like Joe DiMaggio sliding home.

He licked the man’s face all over, not caring that he tasted like alcohol and cigarettes; they were together again. He was Fagin and he was his Artful Dodger.

“Welcome back, boy,” the man slurred. “Ain’t been tha same without ya.”

Dodger had been so overwhelmed reuniting with the Company that he hadn’t noticed a strange new sound — the unmistakable coos of puppies.

He took hesitant steps towards the new mother, or rather, the old mother. She had her pups safely behind her, that was instinctive for when any male approached, even her own son. He knew Annie was searching his face for emotion: anger, sorrow, joy, or guilt.

Dodger couldn’t say what she’d find. His heart was a busy New York City street, every taxi and bus and bicycle a different emotion all running the same direction, but seeing his mother with new pups — all it took was one reckless driver, one crash to scatter all other vehicles off course — the tire screech in his mind was the sharpest yet.

“Son?” She sounded as tired and dusty as she looked. He stared at his three new siblings, two-weeks old, complete mutts vaguely terrier-shaped. There was a boy with messy brown fur and dark spots, growling playfully. There was a white-furred girl, pretty and pristine.

Then Dodger saw the third puppy: he was smaller, quieter than the others, and his coat was white and gray with splotches of brown here and there. Dodger had seen his reflection in puddles and shop windows — this pup looked nearly identical to himself.

He was brought out of his trance by Fagin kneeling down beside him. “Didn’t know ya were a big brother, did ya? When I saw this fella, I realized she was ya mom.” He scratched Annie’s ears gently. “I named tha brown boy Stud, cause he thinks he’s tough. The white girl is Kitty, cause she’s more cat than dog. And this little guy, ya twin… he’s Billy. Named him after an old drinking buddy of mine. Now he’s some hotshot musician.”

Fagin hugged Dodger one more time before returning to his recliner and blankets. He dozed back off with a giggle and a smile; for once, his high was natural.

Dodger shook his head, trying to keep a lid on his every emotion; like an overstuffed trash can, there was no way to keep it all down. “Ya think ya can just have puppies, bring me here on Christmas Day, and now — now I gotta forgive ya?”

“Ya don’t gotta do anything for me,” Annie said. “Do it for yaself.”

He gazed at her, gazed at the puppies, until he imagined he was one of them, nuzzled against her belly. “Ya made me feel so alone, Momma. Even if I wanna forgive ya… that feeling don’t go away. It sticks in ya heart.” He gazed at little Billy the longest, who looked so much like him. But Billy had his siblings, he had the Company, and he had his mother.

With a jolt, Dodger realized he had all of them too. He remembered Rita’s words: whether or not they were still friends was up to him. Perhaps that was true here as well.

“I guess I — I just gotta remind myself that I ain’t alone anymore. If I do that... I think I can forgive ya. I think I can try.”

Annie smiled through her tears. She nodded for her son to join her in the pillow fort, and to his own amazement, he did. Dodger crawled beside her and his new siblings, who seemed to recognize him as family and were eager to snuggle. The five were asleep in minutes.

The apartment was frigid. The electricity was shut off. The bills were piled high.

But the Company had an even better Christmas than last year. Dodger decided to remain with them for the next few days, to see in the new year. He had spent enough time with Oliver and the Foxworths — and he and the gang had a lot of catching up to do. But his friends weren’t the real reason Dodger chose to stick around.

He spent hours each day playing with Stud, Kitty, and Billy. Dodger let them chase him around the room, climb on his back for pony rides, and roll and tug and chew like there was no tomorrow. Dodger didn’t have any good holiday memories from his puppyhood. They would.

The screech of rubber on road was getting fainter every day.

* * *

They were woken in the middle of the night by a sound Dodger would never forget in his life. It was a suppressed bloodcurdling shriek, a cry of pain mixed with a moan of holding back. It was a fighter who didn’t want anyone to know they were down and out.

In an instant the entire Company was awake. Dodger had been sleeping near her, and he’d been the first to jump up; Rita and Charlie soon followed, and a groggy Tito and Frankie after them. But they were all shoved aside by a terrified Einstein. “Annie?”

“What’s wrong with her?” Charlie froze with shock.

“Oh no… Oh dear…” Francis muttered, covering Tito’s eyes.

There wasn’t enough light to see by, only the street lamps outside, but they could all smell the rusty blood and sweaty fur. Finally, Fagin woke up — he shuffled through a kitchen drawer, found his flashlight, shone it on the pillow fort — and covered his mouth in horror.

Annie’s chest was heaving; she tried to breathe steady but kept gasping. Her belly, still swollen from the pregnancy, was a raw pink. The blood came from between her back legs, where she’d given birth — and at once, the gang had a dreadful realization. It could’ve been her old age. It could’ve been the cold. It could’ve been that the Company did everything right, gave her all the food and blankets she needed, and there still would’ve been complications. Why it had taken a few days after the birth to manifest, they didn’t know. 

The Company fell silent after she fought back another scream of agony, practically bit her tongue to muffle it. Einstein’s eyes bulged and he shook his head back and forth, like he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. His panic was only outdone by Dodger’s.

“Momma, what’s — what’s going on?” He dropped to the floor so he was at eye level with her. “Don’t leave me again.”


	10. "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We never know how much time we have left with our loved ones. Grudges are a waste of life; this is a lesson Dodger learns too late. Rita and Charlie commit to raising the pups. Fagin gets news he's been dreading. Oliver has a date on New Year's Eve.

Ten seconds ago, the apartment had been as loud as the city outside with Annie’s barely-contained screams and the Company’s wails of distress. Now it was silent as death. 

Fagin sat on his mattress, biting his nails and muttering, “Can’t afford the vet… Think it’s too late anyways… I’m sorry, fellas.” His flashlight had rolled to the floor, giving them little light to see by. The Company had stopped panicking and also muttered.

The dogs gathered around the pillow fort, where blood was pooling. Francis and Tito hung back, holding each other and trembling. Rita and Einstein were closer to her, grief in their eyes. Charlie had instinctively gathered the puppies away from the scene, hushing them gently, letting them burrow in her fur. The gang saw their friend dying before them.

But Dodger saw his mother. His canine heart was beating so fast he feared it might burst out of his chest. “Momma, why?” he choked out. “Ya were fine. Tha pregnancy was fine.”

She sputtered. “No, baby… I knew something was wrong. I could feel it.” 

“Then why didn’t ya say anything? We could’ve… could’ve done…”

“What could ya have done?” Annie shook her head. “I’ve been so tired for so long. All of ya are young, ya don’t understand, but I… I wanna rest now. So it’s all right.”

“Don’t speak, hon.” Rita’s jaw trembled. “You’re gonna be fine.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” Annie chuckled. She closed her eyes, chest heaving. “After I gave birth, I think I was holding on… until my son and I had… made things right.” She inched towards him. “Now I wanna speak to ya… one last time.”

Dodger touched noses with her. “Momma, please.”

“I want ya to know ya anger and grief… ya had every right to feel that way.” Annie gave his muzzle a gentle lick. “I’ve done wrong by ya. I know I have. Ya deserved a mother who was there, who licked ya wounds and kissed ya before bed. I robbed ya of that.”

“I forgive ya, Momma. I ain’t angry at ya no more.”

“I know ya not… but forgiving myself is tha problem.”

Dodger had been holding his tears back, his eyes red and wet, but he finally broke into sobs. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes to try to stop himself. He laid his head on her back. This couldn’t be happening, this had to be a nightmare that he’d wake up from any moment — but his night terrors were never this vivid. Why did he have to lose her when he’d only just forgiven her? He gulped air, his words incoherent. “Ya — Ya can’t go, Mom. It’s too soon. We haven’t had enough — I haven’t been a… a good son.”

“Well, fair is fair. I haven’t been a good mother.” Her voice was faint now, so she spoke in his ear. “I’m sorry for every hardship ya faced. If I could take it all back… do it over…”

“Don’t blame yaself. Most of my hardships are my own fault.” He gurgled a bizarre, tearful laugh. “I’m a really dumb dog.” He didn’t know why he was laughing, but it brought a smile to Annie’s face, and he knew the laughter was good.

Rita approached them and put her nose to Annie’s cheek. “I’m so sorry, sister. Ya had such a hard life, and for it to come to this, it’s just — ”

“Ya stop that right now. I’ve had a wonderful life… at tha end, anyways.” Annie gave a weak laugh. “I found my son again, and I met all of ya… Who could ask for more?” Her gaze turned to the oldest dog in the room. Einstein had moved away from them, but now he hobbled to her side. “I even fell in love again.” She licked Einy’s cheek.

“I love you, Annie.” Einstein had dried his tears. “I’ll miss you.”

“Right back at ya, big fella.” She laid her head on his large paws, smiling softly. “I’m so thankful I met ya, Einy. Ya never asked anything of me, not once. Ya tha kindest dog I know.”

Then Annie looked at Rita and winked. “Thank ya for being my friend. If ya hadn’t found me in that alley… I don’t know where I’d be. Probably woulda died a lot sooner.”

“Girl, don’t say that.” Rita sniffed back tears. “Just don’t.”

“Hey, it’s true, ain’t it? I’m not sorry to die. We all gotta go sometime.”

She glanced around the room, first at the poor man rocking himself on the mattress, then to Francis and Tito, to Einstein and Rita, then to her son. Finally, her gaze fell on Charlie, the tough girl who was cradling her three puppies. The sight put Annie at ease. “Come here, children. I have to tell ya something.” The pups tiptoed towards their mother. “Ya be good for Charlie and Rita, okay? They’re gonna have their paws full raising ya… but ya three are gonna take care of each other, understand?”

“We’ll take care of them, sugar. Don’t you worry about that,” Rita said.

Annie smiled her thanks, then nuzzled her pups. “I gotta leave ya now. But never forget that I love ya. I’ll love ya till tha day tha lights go out in New York.”

Stud had tears in his eyes. Kitty was sobbing. Billy was silent. It was unclear if they knew what was happening, being so young, but they knew everyone was distressed; that told them all they needed to know. They tucked themselves between their mother and brother.

“There’s a saying I always remember... when things get hard. Got me through some tough times on tha streets.” Annie spoke to all of them now, all four of her pups. “Keep ya dream alive. Dreaming is still how tha strong survive.” 

Those words sent a shiver down Dodger’s spine. He felt as if he’d heard them before, whispered in the rain. Perhaps every stray animal in the city knew them by heart. 

He’d stopped crying now, but his eyes were bloodshot. She licked some dirt off his neck. “My son. My survivor.” Annie closed her eyes for the last time. “I love ya.”

“I love ya too, Momma. I love ya so much.”

The apartment was quiet once again. Einstein whimpered and laid beside her body, and as the warmth disappeared from her, the pups moved to Einy and cried into his gray fur. Everyone else moved to give them space. Dodger trudged to the corner of the room. His friends were all here, whom he’d made up with at last, but he didn’t want to be around any of them.

Right now, he was a puppy freezing in the snow, who’d run from alley to alley until he broke through the floorboards of a condemned building to shiver in the basement.

Fagin eventually stood up from the mattress, fumbled through his trenchcoat for a cigarette, and lit it with a shaky hand. He stepped outside the apartment to smoke it. His dogs stayed inside the apartment, huddled together to keep warm.

They watched the world through the window grow brighter as dawn bathed the New York City skyline in rosy-orange. It was three days after Christmas.

* * *

The next hours passed in a blur for Rita. She watched as Fagin wrapped Annie’s body in a blanket and cleaned the blood with towels and rainwater, but it couldn’t be real — yet she knew she had to be strong and face reality. They’d lost a friend. The pups had lost their mom.

And they weren’t the only ones, she thought as she watched Dodger. He’d crawled below the window, hadn’t said a word for ages. No one knew what to say to him.

After he’d wrapped Annie and placed her still form on the counter, Fagin sat on the floor beside his remaining dogs. “Never lost anyone before, have we?” He rocked himself back and forth. “Sure, some of ya left and came back, but this… this is tha first time…”

Usually his cheeks or hair were his reddest feature, but now it was his eyes. Gray old Einstein put his head in his master’s lap, and Fagin cradled him. The man sniffed, rubbed his nose, and raised a half-empty bottle. “Here’s to poor, sweet Momma.”

When the bottle was drained, Fagin staggered to his mattress and collapsed, snoring within minutes. Einy found room on the mattress beside him, and Francis and Tito squeezed in after him. The latter two, usually so talkative, were quiet as night.

But the night was over. Light poured through the planks that boarded the windows. Even so, they’d all lost sleep last night and decided that a few extra hours wouldn’t hurt. 

“Come here, guys,” Rita called to the puppies. She made a bed in the same pillow fort where their mother had been; they liked the enclosure, and Rita was desperate for anything to comfort them. Stud and Kitty came at once, nuzzling against her, but Billy hung back.

“Billy?” she whispered. The undersized pup was staring at his big brother beneath the window. “Better give him some space, okay?” Billy nodded and joined his siblings.

They were the age that could melt the hardest heart. Not even three weeks old, Rita knew they still needed a mother’s warmth; she would do the best she could. Everyone else in the apartment was fast asleep, even Dodger below the window, but then Charlie nudged her with her wet nose. “Look at ya. A natural mother.” The collie seemed to be half-asleep, half-awake, that state of honest lucidity that came from too little rest. “Think they’ll be okay?”

Rita tucked a paw around the pups. “I can’t say,” she sighed. “They’re barely weaned off milk, and I mean barely. Probably can eat wet food… but I’m scared for them.” 

“We’ll keep our promise to Annie,” she said. “We’ll raise them right.”

Rita laughed low. “Since when are you and me a we?”

Charlie looked around at the others, to make sure they were truly asleep. When she was satisfied, the collie leaned forward and touched noses. She licked Rita’s cheek. “I’m no good at tha mushy stuff,” Charlie chuckled, brusque as ever, “so I’m just gonna say it.”

Rita’s heart froze over like a car in the morning, joy and fear rumbling inside her.

“I love ya, girl. I loved ya back way back on tha houseboat, but for all my tough talk… I was afraid. Thought ya didn’t feel tha same. Heck, maybe ya still don’t. But all that time we were apart made me realize how much ya mean to me.”

“You were afraid?” Rita’s breath was visible. “I never knew.”

“Sure was,” the collie sighed. “Afraid ya liked Dodger more than me. Afraid ya didn’t want anything serious. Afraid ya couldn’t love a girl.” She turned her eyes towards the kitchen counter. “But Annie dying makes me realize life is short. Too short to be afraid.”

“Know what?” Rita whispered. “You’re not too bad at the mushy stuff.” Then she licked Charlie’s cheek and nuzzled her. “I love you, too. If you can say it, so can I.”

The collie laid beside the saluki with the puppies between them. Rita still feared for them, but Charlie’s stupid grin made it hard to feel anything but exasperation and affection. “Think they won’t care that we’re not, ya know, their real mom?” Charlie whispered.

“What’s real, anyways? Everything’s make-believe.”

Rita laid her head on her love’s chest, listening to it thumping faster and faster, and it was all her fault; the guilt made her giddy. Charlie nestled her head in her bushy hair. “I believe it.” They fell asleep at sunrise, listening to their pups’ heartbeats. It was a new day.

She’d always thought no one could love a girl with an attitude problem. Turns out all she had to do was find a girl even worse than herself.

* * *

Dodger was surrounded by friends. It was the middle of the night when the Company had finally dried their eyes and followed Fagin out of the apartment complex, into the buggy of his shopping cart-scooter, and driven across town. He’d carried Annie in his lap. Now they were shivering in a small, fenced-in park with a few shrubs and benches in the East Bronx, a forgettable enclosure that New Yorkers passed every day and never noticed.

Dodger was a million miles away. He liked the park, thought Fagin found a nice spot, but right now he felt like he was below the waves of the East again, struggling to surface.

They’d buried his mom behind a bench. Fagin shook hands with the park groundskeeper, a grizzled man who’d grunted, shut the gate, and helped them dig the hole. Dodger figured when someone died, you put them under and everyone mourned, figured that’s what humans did, but he couldn’t wrap his head around it. “I miss ya already, Momma.”

There was a rock marking the spot, but Dodger wasn’t sure he’d be able to remember which one when he came back. There were many benches and many rocks.

Fagin loitered at the park entrance with Einstein, Tito, and Francis, while Rita and Charlie hovered over the pups. They all eyed him with definite pity, and Dodger hated being pitied. At least they weren’t talking to him. He couldn’t have handled that.

“I know ya forgave me for being mean, but Mom… I was so mean to ya. Why’d ya never give up on me?” He shuffled his paws. Icicles hung off the bench and the leaves were tinged with frost. “I woulda given up on me.”

It was nighttime in the city, but that never stopped the constant flood of headlights and car horns in the background, the honky cars he chased as a pup. Dodger hung his head. “I only ask cause, honestly, I’m having a hard time forgiving myself.”

He hoped none of the Company could hear him. This was a private conversation.

“I wasted our time, Mom. I was angry, I blamed ya… but we were fine, weren’t we? Both survived tha streets. That was all that mattered, but I… I wasted our time with a grudge.”

He remembered how it felt to have tears slide down his cheek and freeze in his fur. Right now he wanted to run away, to dash headfirst into an alley or some basement and be alone. “We just made up, Mom, and now ya gone? It’s too soon.” His ears drooped, his tail hung low.

But he was done running and hiding from his problems.

“Gotta figure out how to be okay with myself, huh? Too bad I ain’t tha smartest dog on tha block.” His mother would’ve laughed at that. He smiled to think so.

He turned to leave, but lingered one moment more. “Thanks for never giving up.” Dodger would remember which stone under which bench. Somehow he would.

The mutt trudged back to the others, who were waiting at the gate of the little park. They greeted him warmly, but thankfully, didn’t say anything. Frankie and Tito gave him silly grins, and he appreciated them. Einy smiled, a mutual loss between them; he was glad the old dog loved his mother, glad they’d had each other. Then there was Rita and Charlie together, his siblings between them… and it clicked in Dodger’s brain that there was more than friendship between the girls. He didn’t know how he hadn’t realized before. Dodger gave a knowing wink.

“You coming back with us, Dodge?” Rita asked gently.

With the Company together again, Dodger felt the strong urge to make a plan of action, steal wallets and watches, then run off together and hop a few taxis, just like the old days. But he wasn’t the president anymore. And he was okay with that.

“Nah, guys. I’ll visit again real soon, but now I… I gotta go.”

He put his nose in Fagin’s outstretched palm; he’d forgotten how rough the man’s skin was. Fagin knelt down and wiped the cold tears from Dodger’s eye ducts. He readjusted the dog’s navy bandana, straightened his collar, and sighed a smile. “Ya ain’t alone no more, boy, hear me? Ya got us, and ya got ya new family. I know ya mom’s gone, but ya ain’t alone.” Fagin embraced him and sniffed back his own tears. “Don’t forget about us.”

Dodger licked his unshaven cheek. It was a promise. Fagin patted his head, stood up, and reached into his pocket for a smoke. To his amazement, the mutt growled. “Okay, smart aleck!” Fagin had a wheezy laugh. “Ya right. Bad habit.” He threw the cigarette in a trash can.

He looked at the gang once more, his gaze lingering on his three siblings — he almost stayed for them. But they had two mothers, and he trusted them. Dodger left the Company behind, ran to the sidewalk, and leapt onto a passing taxi in one smooth stroke.

The car zoomed through traffic, and the air was freezing but it made him feel awake and alive. The city lights and shop windows blurred around them, and soon they’d crossed the bridge and were in Manhattan proper. He loved the rush; always had, always would.

Sure, he hadn’t slept in way too long, but NYC never slept, so why should he?

The snow that had fallen on Christmas was beginning to melt away, leaving slush and ice on the roads. Most drove carefully, but Dodger was on a New York taxi: they didn’t know the meaning of slow. The speed put a smile on his face.

When they finally hit a red light, Dodger leapt to the next car over, whose roof he slid down to the fright of the driver inside. Their scream of surprise made him laugh maniacally. “Man, I forgot how much fun this was.” He jumped onto the sidewalk and skeeted across an icy patch, sliding into a pose like Elvis, all hips. He was just missing the shades.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Dodger couldn’t remember the last time he’d played in traffic — a habit parents usually warned their children against — but he was having the time of his life. Dodger looked to the sky. He’d wound up near Midtown.

He saw skyscrapers and street lamps, smelled gas spewing from pipes, and heard construction and car horns and cooing pigeons. “Just what I needed.” He couldn’t replace the aching in his heart with smoke and streets and sounds, but he came close.

* * *

The Company trotted up the steps after Fagin, careful not to slip on the ice. They caught a glimpse of a neighbor in a second-floor apartment, a man with an ugly scowl who had knocked on his door once to complain about barking dogs, peeping through the window blinds. He wasn’t the only tenant to complain. “Like I’m really tha worst guy here,” Fagin grumbled.

They walked slow, the energy zapped from all of them. Three flights of stairs felt like a climb to the top of the Empire State Building. They had never buried a member of the gang before — sure, they knew life wasn’t forever, but this was the first time, the first shock — and no one was in the mood for jokes. 

When they reached the third flight of stairs, Rita paused to look out at the low-lying rooftops, fire escapes, street lamps, and alleyways of the Bronx. Charlie sat with her, remembering their night out a few weeks back, when they’d watched the city together. “Must’ve been tough for Dodge to grow up here, huh?” Rita mumbled.

Charlie frowned. “Were ya hoping he’d stick around full-time again?”

“No, I didn’t expect him to, but we… we have a lotta history.” Rita rolled her eyes at her mate’s expression. “Oh, you think you’re the only dog I’ve ever had feelings for?”

“I know I’m not. That’d be so boring,” she laughed. They stood a little ways from the others for privacy. “I don’t care about our pasts. I love ya just tha way ya are.”

The tenderness was interrupted by a sharp intake of breath, a gasp that Fagin tried his best to stifle. He ushered the puppies, Tito, and Frankie inside the apartment through the doggy door, but Rita, Charlie, and Einstein lingered outside with him. They knew their old man. Knew when he needed a smoke. Knew when something was wrong.

Fagin was holding a folded piece of paper that had been slid between the door and frame. His eyes scanned the words, then they glazed over. His hand fell open and the paper fluttered to the floor. Fagin went to sit on the top of the steps.

“Go inside, guys,” he muttered when they approached. Rita and Charlie did so obediently. Einstein wouldn’t leave his side, and the Great Dane laid beside him.

If any of them could read, they would’ve seen the words EVICTION NOTICE.

* * *

Two hours before midnight, the Foxworth family was gathered in the living room of their mansion, dressed in their nicest casual wear and ready to go out the door. Winston would be accompanying them tonight, just to keep an extra pair of eyes on Jenny in the crowded Times Square — they didn’t think their daughter would run off, but ever since the incident last spring, they could never be too careful. Their fears aside, the family wanted to have a good time that New Year’s Eve as they left 1988 behind and welcomed in 1989.

“Ready to see the ball drop, Jen?” Her father wrapped a scarf around her neck and kissed her forehead. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll never get a good spot. The Square will be packed.”

Jenny smiled for her dad, not wanting to let him know she wouldn’t mind if they stayed inside tonight. She had the strangest feeling that going out was a bad idea, but fiddling with her woolen mitts, she said nothing. Jenny knew there was nothing to fear.

Mrs. Foxworth had sprayed and tousled extra volume into her blonde hair like a true queen of the Eighties, despite all her socialite friends telling her the look was going out of style. She was a devout follower of Sandra Dee Olsson and determined to look youthful. “Be a good girl, Georgette darling,” she cooed to her prize poodle.

Georgette simpered and whined and tilted her ahead to look affronted. In truth, she loved the woman — despite what her jealous boyfriends said, she didn’t only love herself.

Dutiful Winston held the door for Mr. Foxworth, his wife, and Jenny to wait on the sidewalk while he went around back to pull the limousine around. They weren’t the sort of people to take a taxi. The father looked back at the pets in the window — it was only Oliver and Georgette, unless you counted Bubbles the goldfish, which they never did.

“I hope Dodger returns soon,” Mr. Foxworth sighed. His wife put her arm around his.

“He will, Dad,” Jenny insisted. “He’s visiting his friends, but he’ll be back.”

He squeezed his daughter’s hand and prayed she was right. He thought bathing and collaring the dog meant he’d remain indoors from then on, but he supposed he underestimated Dodger’s free spirit. Jenny had kept him from putting up “lost dog” posters.

Inside the mansion, Oliver watched the family pack into the limousine and drive off down Fifth Avenue. He couldn’t help frowning. Georgette saw his concern and sighed dramatically. “Don’t worry yourself, kitty. They do this every New Year’s.”

“What do you do while they’re gone? Go to bed early?”

The poodle laughed. “Bed early? Goodness, how innocent you are. I have a date with Rex, the three-time Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show gold medal winner.” She eyes her nails casually. “Of course, it would’ve been four times, but he lost to yours truly.”

Oliver rolled his eyes and left her to brag aloud to herself about all the boyfriends she’d defeated, and how she never dated anyone below silver. He went instead to the far end of the mansion, snuck into the enclosure out back, and waited. She wasn’t the only one with a date.

He waited for what felt like hours, the night getting darker, the air getting colder. Oliver considered going back inside, certain she’d forgotten, when he heard a rustle and a jump. He looked atop the enclosure wall, and there was the calico. “You came!”

“What did I tell you?” Adena grinned down at him like a Cheshire. “This is my first New Year’s, too.” She was so beautiful he forgot to breathe. “You coming or what?”

Oliver wiggled his ginger butt and leapt onto the glass table, and from there to the top of the wall. He pranced over and puffed up his chest. “Absitively posolutely.”

“We’ll make an alley cat out of you yet,” Adena giggled. “Let’s go.”


	11. "A Matter of Trust"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver goes out on New Year's Eve with Adena, but the date doesn't go as planned. Dodger returns to the mansion and realizes something is wrong. Fagin is evicted from his apartment; he and the Company are forced to search the streets for refuge.

The first thing that hit him was the noise. Inside the mansion, Oliver only heard car horns and tire screeches as a muffled blur, but out here, in the middle of it all… he forgot how loud New York was. At first, he panicked and imagined he was wet, but he took a deep breath.

Adena barely noticed the rush of sound and happily strode down Fifth Avenue. “Okay there, Ollie?” She grinned at the awe in his eyes. “You get used to it after a while.”

She cut across the sidewalk into a narrow alley. Oliver wasn’t keen to follow her — he remembered fleeing from crazed street dogs — but he wouldn’t lose her. “Wait up!”

“Geez, Ollie.” She poked out from another alley “You’ve been off the streets too long.”

“I could learn a thing or two from you. You’re a pro.”

“Heh, thanks.” Now the calico looked at her paws. “I’ve kinda lived on the streets my whole life. Never had a home. Never had a mansion like yours.”

Oliver squirmed, heart thumping, feeling guilty for no reason. “I got lucky. Jenny gave me a home.” Then he brushed against her gently. “If you wanted, I’m sure the Foxworths — ”

“No, Ollie,” she immediately said, almost hissed. “Don’t offer again.”

His stomach dropped out of his chest as he felt her tense. Oliver wasn’t sure how dates were supposed to go, since this was his first, but he gathered this was going poorly. “Let’s not be so serious,” he said. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We should be having fun.”

“Oh? And what did you have in mind?” It was good to hear her laugh.

“Hoe about food? If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Dodger, it’s how to steal dinner.”

“Way ahead of you.” Adena dashed into the nearest crowd of pedestrians.

But Oliver beat her to it, spotting a couple in furs and scarves sitting down for dinner at an outside table. Their waiter brought out their smoked, cedar plank salmon. It smelled far too good for humans. Oliver leapt from the fence to their table, grabbed the salmon, and ran away while the couple screamed furiously and the waiter cursed the city’s “stray problem.”

The two cats escaped into another alley, laughing with delight. Oliver’s lightheaded thrill reminded him of the time he’d spent with the Company — that single day when he’d owned the streets of gold — and as much as he loved the Foxworths, that day would stay with him forever.

Adena devoured half the salmon and saved the rest for him. She licked a small piece of fish off Oliver’s nose, and in return, he licked her cheek tenderly. “Ollie… this is nice, but…”

“But what? We’re having a great time. I mean, I’m having a great time… aren’t you?”

“You know what?” She raised her head, eyes glistening. “I am having a good time.” Adena’s voice was tearful, though he didn’t understand why. “Let’s go watch the ball drop.”

Adena walked a few more blocks and he followed her loyally; she stopped on a corner to wait for a city bus, which was turning onto the street the next stop down. People began to gather on their corner. “That one goes to Times Square,” she whispered to Oliver as he caught up.

“Wow, a bus ride! Dodger likes to ride on top of cars.”

“Trust me, this is a safer way to get around.”

When the bus rolled to their corner, stopping with a great heave and a smoke cloud from the exhaust pipe, opening the doors, old riders stepped off and new riders climbed on. With the last few, Adena and Oliver snuck aboard and quickly took cover behind someone’s legs.

They rode for fifteen, twenty minutes or so until the bus chugged to a stop and Adena declared that they had arrived. When the doors opened, they were the first to depart, and this time people took notice. Some laughed and some shrieked as their surprise passengers.

“So this is Times Square!” Olive gasped at all the people. They were everywhere, crammed into every nook and cranny of the great plaza.

It was the middle of the night and the air was freezing, but with half of New York crowded in a few blocks, they were warm indeed. “Soon it’ll be a brand new year,” Adena chuckled, gazing at the shiny metal ball that hung from a building above.

“So they drop that ball, and that makes it a new year? Humans are so weird.”

Adena laughed, and it sounded more genuine than any laugh he’d heard from her before. Then her eyes grew wet again. Her eyes moved from the Times Square billboards to the night sky above; with the bright skyscrapers, it was impossible to see the stars.

They climbed onto a fire escape, safely above the crowd. Suddenly a giant sign began to display a countdown. Oliver and Adena watched the number winding down, finally getting to ten, nine, eight, seven. The people below started counting down. Six, five, four. Couples drew closer. Three, two, one. Lips met. Cheers exploded. The ball dropped.

“Happy New Year’s, Adena.” Oliver licked her cheek and purred.

But again, she pulled away from him. His face fell. He didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry… Do you not want me to? If you don’t, then I won’t.”

“Oliver, you’re such a gentleman,” she sniffed. “You’re so kind.”

“Well, sure. Are cats and dogs not usually kind?”

She gave no answer. Adena leapt down from the fire escape, onto a trash can, and back to the concrete ground; she beckoned for him to follow her down, and he did. Instead of returning to the street, she faced into the alley. It seemed to go on forever, an endless dark corridor.

“Follow me, Ollie,” she whispered. “I have a surprise for you.”

Away from the city lights and noisy crowds, the alley seemed a different city altogether. He could see in the dark, as all cats could, but he felt uneasy. Oliver tried to keep on her tail, but she was walking fast, jumping over dumpsters and squeezing under fences. “Adena?”

“Over here, Ollie.” He saw her face for a second before she disappeared again.

He ran to where she’d vanished, a hole in the wall that led into a building. Oliver entered, heart shaking, startling at squeaks and scurries. It was pitch black. Cockroaches scuttled under a fridge and he smelled decaying food. Oliver realized this was a condemned restaurant. The back door was ajar, and he just glimpsed her going outside.

They were in a back alley, all the lights out overhead. There was crude graffiti sprayed on the walls and piles of garbage spilled on the ground. He felt sick. “Adena! Where are you?”

She didn’t show, but someone else did. Several canine someones.

“Aren’t you a little far from home… Oliver?”

It was a tremendous dog, a German Shepherd with bloodshot eyes who was missing an ear. Another dog came out of the darkness, a growling Pit Bull, who blocked the entrance back to the kitchen. “Where’s ya pal, Dodger?” the Shepherd laughed. “Not here to protect ya?”

“You’re the Purebreds…” Oliver was barely breathing, “...aren’t you?”

Two more snarling dogs emerged, and their breeding confirmed his fears. Oliver remembered being cornered by two savage Dobermans, but now he faced twice that number.

The final dog made five. The black, bristled fur, the enormous muzzle, and the cold, yellow eyes. It was Sykes’ personal attack dog, straight from his worst nightmares.

“Oliver. I’m so pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much.”

The only word Oliver could get out was, “Ros — Roscoe?”

“Ruscoe, actually. Roscoe was my father. I know, I know, Dodger was shocked too.”

Dodger warned him about their old enemy’s son, but it hadn’t seemed possible — not until he was standing in front of him. A dog with a damaged reputation to make right.

“Now, I haven’t seen Dodger since I pushed him off the Brooklyn Bridge. Thought he was a goner.” Ruscoe sneered, beginning to circle the poor cat. “That was until I learned he was all cozy in a Fifth Avenue mansion, alive and well… and you’ll never guess who told us.”

Out of the shadows stepped Adena. The calico was looking at her paws, not saying a word, and finally raised her head to meet his gaze. “Surprise.”

The word held no malice, no emotion at all. Her serpent green eyes had lost their beauty and charm, replaced by two things he’d never seen in her before: fear and shame. 

“Tell him ya story, pussycat!” the German Shepherd barked.

“Tell him how ya been working with tha Purebreds for months, spying on mutts, telling us where to find tha mangy mongrels,” a Boxer grinned, “and run them outta town.”

“Tell him that when ya found out Dodger was living in that mansion, ya came straight to us with tha news!” the Pit Bull called out, slobber on his chin.

“Nah, she should skip to tha punchline and tell him how she’s been playing with his feelings for weeks now, gaining his trust, all to lure him into the city for us to kidnap.” Ruscoe wore a wide grin, wicked with glee. “That’s my favorite part.”

Oliver faced her in horror, and he wanted to ask if it was true, but he didn’t have to.

“You can’t kidnap me! I’ll — I’ll fight you and you — you’ll have to kill me!”

“That would certainly be easier. But no, we’re not killing you today,” Ruscoe admitted, much to his hungry gang’s disappointment. “You’re bait to lure Dodger, obviously.”

Oliver made a sudden, wild attempt to run away, but he only got two feet. Ruscoe leapt forward and swatted him like a fly. The cat was thrown against a wall, hitting his head on the bricks. Oliver slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Let’s go, boys,” Ruscoe barked and picked up Oliver by the scruff of his neck.

“Ruscoe, wait… please.” Adena’s eyes were fixed on his motionless body. “Please don’t hurt him. Lure Dodger, kill Dodger, but please… let Oliver go afterwards.”

“That’s not your call, pussycat. Your job is done, so follow us or get lost.”

He left the alley with Oliver in his jaws. Adena sniffed back tears and followed.

* * *

In the year and a half he’d been on his own, before meeting Fagin, Dodger had explored every inch of the Five Boroughs. He’d once snuck into the Empire State Building and taken the elevator up to the observatory deck. At the top, he’d gazed upon his steel kingdom.

He’d also felt dizzy, suspended thousands of feet above the sidewalks he knew. Dodger had been in the clouds, and he’d felt like he was losing air, like he was falling.

That’s how he felt now. No matter how many car rides he took, hotdogs he stole, or blocks he walked, he couldn’t forget the sound of his mother’s last breaths.

“Like I’m free-falling,” Dodger said, curled atop a parked taxi cab. He didn’t know what he wanted, what could erase his hurt — then he spied a stray cat across the street.

He was young, a black-and-white tuxedo cat, licking a hamburger wrapper.

“Oliver.” The dog couldn’t help smiling. “I gotta see tha kid. He’ll cheer me up.”

Dodger was near a subway station, and it was a simple matter of trotting down the stairs and slipping through the revolving gate. He easily snuck aboard the train.

A few stops later the doors opened, passengers flooded out, and Dodger with them. He’d been around New York long enough to know the metro; this was the Central Park stop, right next to Fifth Avenue, and soon the familiar Foxworth mansion was in his sights.

He paused at the exterior, admiring the yellow bricks and window flowers. Dodger hated this place when he first saw it — they’d kidnapped the kid, and the Company had to rescue him, or so they thought — but when he looked at it now… this was home. 

“Kiddo?” Dodger leapt onto the window ledge and crawled into the library, getting dirt on the cushions — Mrs. Foxworth would surely make a fuss — but no answer. The cat loved napping in the library at this time of day. “Hello?”

“Dodger,” called a sweet voice. It was his Nancy babe, beautiful and golden-furred. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. Thank goodness you’re here. Something… Something is wrong.”

“What?” he frowned. “What could be wrong?” He followed Nancy through the halls and into the living room, where the entire Foxworth family was gathered: David, May, Jenny, their butler Winston, and even Georgette. But someone was missing.

“Jen, honey, I’m sure he’s in the house somewhere,” her father said.

“But we’ve looked everywhere!” the girl cried, burying her face in her hands. “This isn’t like Oliver, he never goes outside… It’s just like before. When I came home and he was… he’d been… taken.” Jenny sobbed and sobbed. “He’s been kidnapped again… like I was…”

“Oh, my darling.” Her mother, usually the picture of elegance, dropped to her knees and embraced her daughter. “Don’t go there. It will all be okay. We’re going to find him.”

“We’ll put up posters. We’ll phone animal services,” Winston offered.

It was a sorrowful scene, her parents hugging her and Winston’s arm on her shoulder. Even Georgette, who firmly maintained that the cat was a nuisance, shed a tear. Dodger and Nancy watched from the entrance, and the family hadn’t seen them yet — but the prizewinning poodle did. Georgette caught Dodger’s gaze and held it in silence.

All this time, they had never understood each other. They were marble and concrete, silk and cotton, Fifth Avenue and the Bronx. Now they set aside their differences — his eyes asked her if it was true, if Oliver was nowhere to be found, and her eyes confirmed it. Georgette bowed her head. Dodger left without greeting the Foxworths.

“Where are you going?” asked Nancy, following him down the hall. They returned to the library and its open window. Dodger climbed onto the windowsill.

“Where else?” His voice trembled. “I’m gonna find my little bro.”

“Good,” Nancy said. “I’m coming too. Two noses are better than one.”

Dodger licked her cheek, nuzzled her neck — he didn’t want to put her in danger, but it was a big city and he couldn’t search it alone — so he nodded and exited the same way he’d entered. Nancy followed him out of the mansion, out of safety, into danger.

“There’s something else you should know.” Nancy ran alongside him down the street. “Last night, I saw him in the back patio… and he went out with someone.”

“Who was it?” Dodger suspected he already knew.

“I don’t know her name,” Nancy said, “but it was a cat. A calico cat.”

* * *

Oliver woke up to a drop of water splashing his nose. He looked up and saw an old pipe was beginning to leak, as if his cramped quarters weren’t bad enough. Sometimes the ceiling rumbled, like a crowd of hundreds was stampeding overhead.

“Is anyone there?” Oliver meowed, pawing at the door. “Could you move me to a more comfortable closet? This one has a leaky pipe. Shouldn’t your hostage be comfortable?”

No response. He’d been the Purebreds’ prisoner for a day now, or two — it was hard to keep track of time in the dark. They’d given him no food, no water, which told him that their plan to lure Dodger would happen soon. If they’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

The water had accumulated a small puddle that he drank from, but it tasted metallic.

He heard the creak of a door being pushed open and the movement of light paws, someone with a small stature. He caught her scent from under the door and scowled.

“I know it’s you, Adena. Why are you here?”

“Oliver, I… I don’t know what — ”

“You don’t know what to do?” he huffed, flopping down with his back to the door. “Why don’t you befriend another cat and lure him into a trap? It was so funny the first time.”

“I didn’t want to give you to them.”

“Well, you did. Dodger was right about you. I should’ve listened.”

“I guess he was.” Adena’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t you listen?”

“Because I was dumb enough to like you. I thought you were the coolest. The prettiest.”

“I don’t suppose…” she mumbled, “…you still think I’m cool and pretty?”

“Of course I do. The trouble is, now I think you’re a backstabbing liar, too.”

He felt her press her face and body against the door. He could hear her frantic heartbeat. “Would you believe me if I said that I — I don’t want to be in the Purebreds. I have no choice. I stay with them out of fear. They saved my life, fed me, and now they won’t let me — ”

“Let you leave? You have no choice?” Now his heart was racing as fast as hers, pity and rage and hurt all mixed up inside him. “You always have a choice. How many mutts have you spied on and sold out to the Purebreds? You’re an accomplice.”

They were both silent for a time, and the only sound was the occasional drip and the rumble of people above. Suddenly there came the ringing of a clock, a loud chime, followed by the distant steam hiss of a train. He wondered where he was being held hostage.

He wished, more than anything, that he was back home in Jenny’s bed. He cuddled with her every night, licking her cheek to make her giggle, snuggling on the pillow. When she used to catch a whiff of her father’s late-night cigar, wafting from downstairs, she’d start breathing faster, trembling. Before he’d thrown them out. When Jenny panicked, Oliver nuzzled her.

He didn’t know what she’d do without him. Or him without her.

Finally, under his breath, “Could you please go away?”

“I can’t — I’ll get in trouble. I have to guard you.”

“Then can you not speak to me for the rest of the night?”

She let a tear slip down her cheek, but Adena did as he asked.

* * *

“Say goodbye, fellas,” Fagin said in a hollow voice. He didn’t bother flipping the lights on or off — electricity hadn’t been paid in two months — but there was little left to look at in the apartment, anyways. “We gotta be out by noon.”

The patchwork couch from Goodwill, he left. The stained mattress, he left. The TV that only picked up eight channels, he left. The radio Tito loved, he left. The recliner chair he’d had for years, his favorite, he left. That was the only furniture he’d ever acquired.

He’d stuffed three changes of clothes, some nonperishable food, a couple bags of kibble, and all the blankets he could fit into a few garbage bags. The bags were loaded into the basket of his motorbike-shopping cart contraption, the only vehicle he owned. The pockets of his ragged green trench coat were stuffed with dog biscuits, a pair of socks, a switchblade, three packs of cigarettes and a lighter, and a few dollar bills and coins totaling $18.38.

Fagin made space in his cart, between the bags, to stuff a blanket where Annie’s three pups could be warm. Tito was small enough to fit with them. Rita, Einstein, Francis, and Charlie had no choice but to walk alongside their master as he rolled, not drove, his motor cart.

“Keep together, guys,” Fagin mumbled at the steps, “for warmth.” 

The Company looked back at the apartment complex, with its boarded windows and cracked bricks — the best home they’d ever had — then they departed for good. 

They walked for hours that day. Fagin wanted to get out of the Bronx; he’d picked a few pockets too many and had the local cops watching him. The problem was, he didn’t know where to go next. The city was dangerous at night; if you went to the wrong part of Brooklyn or Staten Island, you could walk into an alley and never walk out.

Fagin didn’t know where to take his dogs, didn’t have any connections left. He was afraid to stay in the homeless alleys, in case of trouble, but he couldn’t go near the wealthy areas. They were stuck navigating the in-between, offbeat alleys where they could go unnoticed.

“Shoulda never left tha boat,” Fagin mumbled, hiding behind a dumpster. “We woulda still had a home. That’s what I get for trying… trying to do better.” He ran his fingers through clumps of red hair going gray. “Ya can’t do it. Can’t move up in this world.”

They made a makeshift campsite, blankets and newspaper strewn on the ground, so the dogs could rest their weary paws. Rita and Charlie curled up with the puppies. Francis saw Tito shivering and beckoned him over. “Come here, you rat,” the Bulldog sighed, pulling the Chihuahua towards him. “I have enough fat for the both of us.” Tito snuggled in his arms.

Einstein was the last to slump into the alley; he had lagged behind the others, and his breathing was heavy. He laid his gray head in Fagin’s lap, and the man threw a blanket over him. “Hey, old boy,” Fagin whispered to the Great Dane, “hang on just a bit longer.”

Fagin pulled his pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, a little haphazard, but he got it lit and took a long drag. Daylight was running out — they’d have to rest here.

A couple in fine winter coats paused at the entrance of the alley. The woman pointed out to her boyfriend that there was a funny man behind the dumpster with no less than eight dogs.

“He shouldn’t have so many if he can’t take care of them,” she scoffed.

“Is he smoking? What a money drain.” The man stuck his hands in his lavish pea coat, to guard his wallet. “That’s the problem with the poor: no sense of money management.”

“All they want is government handouts. If they won’t work for it, they don’t deserve it.”

“Exactly, my dear.” The man pinched his girlfriend’s cheeks. “Exactly.”

The Company rested a few hours. When Rita opened her eyes, it was much later at night — the weather had turned even colder — and she saw that her black-and-white collie had stood up, looking out the other end of the alley. “Charlie?” her teeth chattered.

“We can’t stay here, babe,” Charlie whispered. “We’ll freeze by morning.”

“What are we supposed to do? The fellas are exhausted.”

“Wake them up. I know where we are now — and I got an idea.”

Rita did so, licking everyone’s cheeks until they were awake. The dogs mumbled annoyances, for they’d barely slept. Fagin yawned and blinked his eyes. “What is it, girl?”

Charlie barked until she had their attention. Rita pushed everyone to their feet, pushed them to follow Charlie out of the alley. “Ya got someplace better to go?” Fagin asked. Charlie couldn’t tell him with words, so she had to use her eyes. The man saw determination, resolve. “Okay, girl. We’re trusting ya.” Fagin loaded their bags and blankets back in the cart.

They left the alley and returned to the streets, the only light coming from street lamps and Fagin’s faintly-glowing cigarette. The Company followed Charlie through the darkness. When he saw a street sign by lamplight, Fagin realized they’d wandered all the way into Harlem.

Charlie barked beside a stairway entrance to a subway station. There was yellow caution tape marking the station as condemned, but Charlie vanished under it without a second thought. Fagin shrugged and followed her down the stairs. 

“Charlie… this is perfect.” He gave the collie a tight hug when he saw the station by flickering ceiling light. There was graffiti and garbage, but the station was underground and warmer than the streets. “I think ya just saved our lives.” 

Fagin gave her a dog biscuit from his coat. The Company settled into their new home, happy to be out of the cold. Fagin laid out the blankets and the eight dogs made themselves comfortable under the benches. The best part was, they had the abandoned station to themselves.

“This is where Nancy, Noah, and I lived for months,” Charlie explained to the gang. “I realized we were close by… better than an alley, huh?”

“Much better.” Rita licked her partner’s cheek. “Thanks, love.”

“I ditched ya guys when Sykes showed. This is tha least I can do.”

“That’s all in the past.” Rita gave a weary smile. “We’re safe now.”


	12. "I Go To Extremes"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A desperate search for Oliver brings out Dodger's angry side, shocking Nancy. The Purebreds invite him to Grand Central Station to make a trade, but what is Dodger trading? Who's the true leader of the Purebreds, and what's their motivation?

They spent the rest of the day combing the streets, searching for some hint of Oliver and his treacherous new friend. The more Dodger thought about Adena, lying to the kid, tricking him, the angrier he grew. “Oliver!” he barked. “Where are ya?”

One block searched, then another, until they’d combed all of the Upper East Side. Not a sign of Oliver anywhere. Outside the Foxworth mansion on Fifth, they caught a whiff of Oliver and Adena’s scents together, but they couldn’t follow the trail for long. There were so many smells in New York City, it was tough for a canine nose to focus on just one.

Anytime they ran into a fellow street dog, they’d chase them and screamed, “Wait, don’t go! We ain’t gonna hurt ya!” But few strays believed other strays had pure intentions.

They got a brown-and-tan mutt cornered, who only stopped trembling when he realized his pursuers weren’t purebred. “Have ya seen two cats? Orange tabby and a calico?”

The mutt shook his head, and they stepped aside so he could flee.

Finally they cornered a purebred black Labrador, who was determined to go down fighting. “Ya ain’t getting me, Underdogs!” He growled and raised his haunches.

“What? We’re not Underdogs — ya think just cause we’re mixed-breeds — Wait a minute.” Now Dodger growled too. “Are ya in tha Purebreds?

“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t. I’m pure Lab, see? Better than ya mutts.”

“Why ya stuck-up, no-good — ” 

But Dodger was cut off by the girl beside him. Nancy stepped in front of him, stopped their fight, and told the Labrador to beat it. He quickly ran off. “Don’t lose ya temper,” Nancy said. “That Lab wasn’t in tha Purebreds. Just wanted us to think he was.”

“Yeah… guess so.” Dodger’s ears fell at her words. His mind went back to a day long ago, when he’d sat under a sidewalk bench with a homeless man taking a smoke.

_Get that temper under control before it gets ya in trouble, mister._

Dodger had tried for years, but rage was intoxicating.

“But maybe we should be asking tha Purebreds, huh?” The idea struck him. “They been after me since Halloween. Ruscoe swore to get me.” His eyes widened. “What if they kidnapped Oliver to lure me? But how did they know where we live?”

Nancy’s voice went low. “What if tha Purebreds ain’t just dogs? What if they let purebred cats into tha gang… like calicos?”

Suddenly it all made horrible, perfect sense.

From then on, they had a new strategy: stop tracking down random mutts and start interrogating the breeded, the fancy, the posh. They were harder to find, harder to tell who was homeless and who was somebody’s pet. Lack of collar was their give-away. 

The sky had darkened. By flickering alley light, Dodger would slam the purebreds against the wall and demand to know if they were in Ruscoe’s gang. “Who tha heck is Ruscoe?” they all said, some convincing, others not. Dodger got a few scrapes, but he moved with speed and fury and had Nancy for backup. Most of the time.

“Dodge!” she gasped as she watched him kick a tiny, chubby pug. The purebred had a wrinkled face, smeared with dirt; he cowered instantly. 

Dodger snarled in his face and put a paw on his back, keeping him down. He explained that the pug looked guilty when he heard the name “Oliver.” The pug’s eyes watered. “So where is he, punk? Where did they take Oliver?” he growled.

“I don’t know!” the pug squeaked. “One day he was there, everything was fine, then — ”

“ — then a calico cat lured him off, right? Where do they got him?”

“A calico? No, no, he put me in a box… Said I was a mistake. Left me in an alley.”

“What? Who?” Dodger snapped, his eyes popping.

“My human, Oliver. He was good, he didn’t mean it. He loves me.”

“Dodger, let him go! Ya hurt him!” Nancy shrieked, pushing him away from the pug. He wouldn’t budge, and she had to grab his bandana in her teeth and yank him. Free, the pug scampered out of the alley and ran into a crowd of people. Dodger was panting.

“What gives?” he spat. “Are ya crazy, ya Brooklyn broad?”

Nancy narrowed her eyes. She backed away from him, eyes watery but refusing to let a single tear fall. “He didn’t know anything.” Her voice quivered. “Ya outta control.”

“I’m saving my little bro. They could be hurting him.”

“And how would Oliver feel if he saw ya acting like this?”

“Oliver would rather not be kidnapped, ya nag.”

“Ya think he’d be proud of ya, scaring and hurting innocent dogs?” Nancy glared at him. “I’ve known him a month and I know he wouldn’t. Ya acting like tha Purebreds.”

“Sometimes ya fight fire with fire. This is a gang war.”

“But ya better than them! Ya not a mean dog, I know ya ain’t.”

“Don’t judge me.” He headed further down the alleyway. There was a chain-link fence before him, bent at the bottom big enough for a dog to squeeze through. “Ya coming?”

“I wanna save him too, Dodge. But not like this.” She was on one side of the fence and he was on the other, light flashing dimly overhead. She was shaking. “I’m going home.”

Rubber tires screeched in his head, screaming on asphalt.

“Ya leaving me. Ya said ya wouldn’t, but here ya are — Go then! Get lost!”

“Dodger… calm down. I ain’t leaving ya.”

“I don’t need ya!” he barked. “I’ll save tha kid on my own.”

Nancy said nothing more. They looked at each other between the silver chains, memories and hearts locked on the fence, keys thrown away. Then they both turned, walked a few paces in the opposite direction. Then they ran, not looking back. The night grew colder.

Dodger was left, again, to wander the concrete jungle alone.

His breaths were ragged, his paws blistered. The dog’s brown, white, and gray fur was always scruffy, but now it was a knotted mess. He’d barely slept or eaten.

Dodger had searched the streets for hours, or days — time had escaped him — with no trace of Oliver. He’d gone over every district twice: Upper East, all of Midtown, the Theatre District, and lastly, Chelsea and Gramercy. He knew the Purebreds wouldn’t take his little brother north, that wasn’t their territory. He knew, in his heart, Oliver was in Lower Manhattan.

He knew that his only hope of finding Oliver was — like he’d done on Halloween — to march into the lower city. Into enemy territory.

“Seen tha Purebreds around here, punk? Calico cat with them?”

“No, I swear — haven’t seen them in weeks — let me go!”

As the Dalmation slumped away, he realized he’d make the poor canine limp. He hadn’t meant to bite his leg that hard. Dodger watched him slump down and nurse his wound. His mind flashed the image of a German Shepherd puppy missing an ear. 

Dodger fled the alley and ran until he found a fire escape.

He climbed under the metal stairwell. “Oh, Oliver… what am I doing?”

The look in the orange kitten’s eyes when Dodger had scoffed and turned his back on him for wanting to live with some rich girl. For not wanting to stay with Dodger. _Ya wanna leave? Fine. There’s tha door. Go on. No one’s stopping ya._ The heartbreak in the kid. _Ya lighten up! If he doesn’t like it, let him go._ How many times had he let anger get the best of him?

It was the Bronx. It was New York. It was him.

* * *

He woke up the next morning to the morning rush. The homeless could always count on the bagel buyers and coffee connoisseurs for an alarm clock. Dodger wasn’t hungry.

He’d let so many bad things happen to his friends and family. Why had he wasted so much life being angry at his mother, at Oliver, at the Company, even at his Nancy babe?

Late nights and early mornings were ripe for guilt. Dodger had no breakfast — all he had to do was find Oliver, save Oliver — but there was no sign of the Purebreds.

He spent hours in the grim streets of Hell’s Kitchen, but no Purebreds. He walked up and down Wall Street, but no Purebreds. All of the Meatpacking District, but no Purebreds. All day he searched, and it wasn’t until early evening that it finally clicked — they were avoiding him, toying with him. They were making him come to them. They were at headquarters.

_Not just power. Battery also means beating tha living daylights outta ya._

When he arrived at Battery Park, there was only the occasional walkway lamp for light. No stars could be seen; the night was pitch black, and he could barely see in front of him. But Dodger smelled the Purebreds were near. He stepped cautiously into the grass.

“Purebreds?” he snarled. “I know ya there. Step into tha light.”

Dodger stayed close to the lamplight — if they planned to jump him, at least he’d see it coming — and one after the other, one finely-bred canine at a time, they came forward. There was Club and Razor, in front of their subordinates. Leading the pack was Roscoe himself.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he snickered. “Oops. Poor choice of words.”

“Where’s Oliver? I know ya got him. I know Adena tricked him.”

“Adena? Oh, you mean the calico. Didn’t know she had a name.”

His lackeys laughed at his callousness, a horde of brutish elites, all males. Dodger had never seen any girls in their gang, but if they were as discriminating about gender as they were about breed, then Dodger guessed they forced females to stay with the puppies.

“That cat owes us her life. She belongs to us. She doesn’t need a name.”

Dodger spied a white, black, and orange shape in the background, hiding behind a park bench. Adena met his gaze. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was crying.

“As for your cat… he’s alive. Might not have all nine lives left, though.”

“If you’ve touched a hair on his head, I swear — ”

“You’re not in a position to make threats.” Ruscoe towered over him, as tall as his father had been. “And we’re not threatening you. We’re offering you an invitation.”

“Ah, don’t tell me ya throwing Club his bar mitzvah.”

“More of a board meeting. A stock exchange. You can trade for your feline.”

“Trade? What am I trading for him, exactly? Whaddya want?”

“Find out at midnight tomorrow. Come to Grand Central Station, and come alone. If you bring any backup — your Company friends, or the Underdogs — the trade’s off.”

“But what am I trading?” Dodger barked, but they wouldn't answer. The Purebreds slunk into the shadows, their backs to him. He barked and growled at them, but they didn’t engage. They walked away as he shouted, “What am I trading?”

* * *

Dodger was sprinting through the streets. His eyes were locked on the great train station, just a few blocks ahead. It was midnight, the witching hour, and although New York never slept, the city had an eerie stillness. He felt like he was walking into Sykes’s lair all over again.

They’d made him wait an entire day, built up his fear and anxiety, worn him out from running downtown and back uptown. The Purebreds were deliberate in their planning.

The dog reached Park Avenue and stood before the building. There were giant columns and three enormous windows, and at top, a sculpture of three figures above a clock. Below them was the carved title: Grand Central Terminal. He hoped his meeting wasn’t terminal.

Inside, the station was nearly empty, save a janitor and a night guard. The famous Grand Central Terminal Clock was the centerpiece. Dodger slipped in unnoticed, his eyes darting to every corner of the building. In the far right was Ruscoe, patient in the shadows. 

“Follow me,” the Doberman whispered. Dodger had no choice.

They walked down a flight of metal stairs, down past the docking stations, to the basement where train mechanics worked. Steam hissed from pipes; rats scurried in the corners. At this hour of night, there were no humans. “Welcome to our board meeting.”

There were several large dogs on the mechanic level, hiding behind metal pillars, emerging from the steam fog, all surrounding Dodger. He saw a perfect Boxer. A flawless Husky. An ideal Great Dane. An impeccable Malamute. He saw Club the Pit Bull and Razor the one-eared German Shepherd. He didn’t see Oliver.

“And it’s a trap. I knew it was a trap. So whaddya gonna do, kill me?”

“I said we were trading for Oliver, didn’t I? I’m a dog of my word.”

“Then where is he? I ain’t doing nothing till I see he’s okay.”

“Figured you’d say that.” Ruscoe nodded to the crowd, and on cue, Razor disappeared down the hallway towards what looked like a row of closets. He couldn’t see, but he heard a hiss and a scuffle, and the German Shepherd re-entered the room with a ginger cat in his mouth. He had Oliver between his teeth, not biting him hard enough to hurt, but to trap.

“Kid,” Dodger panted, heart pounding, “don’t panic — I’m here.”

“I’m okay! Don’t do — ” Oliver squirmed, “ — anything stupid!”

“I think his cat is smarter than he is,” Ruscoe chuckled, his gang echoing.

“Let him go, Ruscoe, or I swear to Old Yeller I’m gonna — ”

“Make me? You can’t make us do anything. We hold all the cards.” Ruscoe laughed down to him. “But know what the funniest part is? How much you don’t know about us.”

“Whaddya mean? I know plenty. Tha Purebreds are breed supremacists. Ya hurt other dogs to get what ya want, and ya want territory. Ya wanna rule tha city.”

“That’s all true… but it’s just the surface. You don’t see things from our perspective.” Now the Doberman circled him. “You don’t even know who really leads the Purebreds.”

“...What are ya talking about? Ya lead them.”

“But what if I don’t? What if we just want you to think that?”

The dogs surrounding them all moved aside, even Ruscoe moved aside, deferred. Another dog’s paws make the metal flooring clank, for he was a heavyweight. He hadn’t been there a minute ago. He was a familiar, terribly familiar, face from the darkness.

This was impossible. Dodger had known him for years, way back on Fagin’s barge. He’d been a member of the Company, back in the day. The one who always made him laugh, who understood when he wanted to be left alone. He wasn’t the Purebreds’s leader.

“...Noah? What are ya doing here?”

“Dodger, my friend. Guess I have some explaining to do.”

“But why — Noah, ya can’t be their leader — it don’t make sense.” Dodger backed up against a metal pipe. “Ya were tha one who first warned me about tha Purebreds.”

“I didn’t want ya to get hurt. Ya my buddy. Figured ya’d have tha common sense to stay outta harm’s way, but I underestimated ya stubbornness.” The purebred Bullmastiff, the gray giant, had such a good-natured smile. “I’ve been their leader from tha start. Heck, tha Purebreds were my idea. But most of them don’t know I’m calling tha shots.”

Noah glanced around at all the dogs in the mechanic’s platform. “Only tha dogs in this room right now know tha truth. Tha rest think Ruscoe is their fearless leader.”

“But why? Why do ya wanna get rid of all tha mutts?”

“Hey, no worries, no cares. I’m gonna tell ya everything ya wanna know.”

Maybe Noah thought hearing a play on his own catchphrase would cool Dodger’s temper. It had the opposite effect. He fixated on poor Oliver, trapped in Razor’s jaws. His vulnerability was the only thing keeping Dodger from lashing out.

“Bro, please, calm down.” Noah stared at him with unmistakable concern. “I know ya have, well... a bit of an anger problem, but everyone’s got problems, don’t they?”

“I don’t have problems, you no good, backstabbing — ”

“Dodger, Dodger… buddy. Ya gotta calm down. Ya not thinking straight.” Noah smiled wearily. “I’m trying to talk rationally with ya, cause that’s what friends do.”

He felt blood coursing through his veins furiously. Noah took a gentle step towards him, but he was met with a growl from Dodger. That put all of the Purebreds on alert, and he heard Oliver whimper — Razor’s fangs were tightening — and Dodger controlled himself.

“Ya and me,” Dodger panted, “are not friends.”

“That’s just anger talking. I know we’re friends. Known each other for ages, went hungry on Fagin’s boat together… Honestly, ya the greatest friend I’ve ever had on tha streets.”

“Friends don’t betray friends! Friends don’t kidnap innocent cats to get at each other!” he barked. “Ya ain’t my friend. Ya a lying scumbag.” Dodger thought back to their conversation at dawn, after he’d spent the night in their subway station. “Ya weren’t patrolling tha block that morning. Ya were meeting with ya lackeys, weren’t ya?”

“I never lied to ya. Never said I was patrolling tha block.” Noah sighed. “But I never told ya tha whole truth. Lemme make up for that now. Lemme explain.”

“Fine, I’ll listen. But I want Razor to put Oliver down. Get his teeth off him.”

The Purebreds’ true leader nodded to the scarred Shepherd, who rolled his eyes and set Oliver down. He didn’t let him escape though — he kept his claws on the cat’s collar. Noah turned back to Dodger. “See? We’re reasonable. We ain’t an evil gang. It ain’t like there are good dogs and evil dogs. It ain’t that simple. Really, we’re doing everyone a favor.”

“Oh, this’ll be good. Okay, I’ll bite. How are tha Purebreds doing us all a favor?”

“We’re separating dogs who oughta be separated. We’re establishing order. That’s what Roscoe and DeSoto said to us tha first night they threatened us, remember? They looked at me, Rita, Frankie, Tito, and Einstein and asked why we were hanging out with mutts like ya, Charlie, and Nancy. They said breeds oughta stick to their own breeds. That made sense.”

“Ya believed those jerks? Thought ya were superior? Ya said we were friends.”

“We were. We are. I didn’t think I was superior… just that pure-breeds and mixed-breeds shouldn’t mingle. Separate but equal.” Noah sighed. “That’s why I left.”

Dodger scoffed at the revelation. “I thought ya left cause Sykes scared ya off? And if ya became a breed supremacist, why’d ya live with Charlie and Nancy for so long?”

“I wasn’t convinced then, but tha seed was planted. Sure, I stuck around tha girls — safety in numbers. And I liked them fine,” he shrugged. He was so casual it made Dodger furious. “But late last summer, I began sneaking off. Meeting other purebreds with tha same idea. I met Ruscoe and we decided to form tha Purebreds and segregate New York for good. We’d take all of Manhattan and drive tha mutts north. Keep them in tha Bronx.” 

The mention of his puppyhood home sent a flash of anger over him. So this was their plan — confine all mixed-breeds to the Bronx. Confine him to the Bronx.

“After Halloween, our plans went into motion, so I left tha girls altogether. Began leading tha Purebreds full-time.” He gazed at his gang members proudly. “Ruscoe and I decided that I’d be tha brains and he’d be tha brawn. I’d control tha gang in secret while he rallied dogs to our cause. Ruscoe’s a natural leader, see, a dog others can admire. Better at tha whole alpha male schtick than me.” He cast the Doberman an appreciative look. Curiously, Ruscoe didn’t return his smile but instead looked contemplative. Noah didn’t notice and kept talking. “Unfortunately, Ruscoe thinks he has a score to settle with ya.”

“Yeah, I noticed when he shoved me off tha Brooklyn Bridge.”

“I didn’t order Ruscoe to kill ya that night. I don’t want ya dead. He disobeyed me, but we had words. Came to an understanding.” Ruscoe didn’t look especially understanding.

It seemed to Dodger that not everyone was happy with their leadership arrangement.

“Noah, if we really are friends… I just don’t get it. How is segregation good?”

“Everyone’s happier around those who look like themselves. Roscoe and DeSoto made me think about tha division between mutts and pures… best thing for everyone is to separate. When they’re together, they fight. When they’re apart, there’s peace. It’s as simple as that,” Noah shrugged. “Manhattan is for tha upper class. Always has been, always will be.”

“So stealing territory? Stealing from weaker dogs? That’s all for tha cause?”

“That’s life on tha streets,” he said firmly. “Ya know that as well as I do. Tha Purebreds are doing what normal street dogs do to each other, just on an organized level.” Now he raised an eyebrow. “Ya never had a problem staking out an alley, fighting weaker dogs for a meal. So why are ya upset when my gang does tha same? If ya wanna eat, another dog’s gotta starve.”

“That ain’t true. If we all shared with each other — ”

“Share? There ain’t enough to share!” Noah suddenly barked. “Survivors. Don’t. Share.” He rolled his eyes, but soon regained his composure. “If anyone’s gonna share, it’s gonna be pures with pures and mutts with mutts. Segregation is best. Ya know I’m right.”

His mind was in a jumble. Dodger couldn’t blame them for wanting to survive, even if that meant stealing from other dogs. He took a deep breath.

“Ya said I could trade for Oliver,” he said slowly. “What am I trading?”

“Wondered when we’d get to that.” Noah smiled. “That’s tha real reason we summoned ya tonight. Ya see now that ya ain’t that different from us. Ya know we’re friends.” It was strange to see the Bullmastiff smile so endearingly while his gang glared. It was disconcerting.

“I’d like ya to join tha Purebreds. Join me and Oliver goes free.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t that.

“I’m a mutt. What about everything ya just said, about segregation?

“We’ll make an exception for ya. I’m tha leader. What I say goes. If I tell my gang that ya a pureblooded Jack Russell Terrier, then ya are.” He turned to his lackeys and they nodded.

“Oh, yeah! He’s a Purebred!” Club said with slobber.

“Best Jack Russell I ever seen,” the Boxer said.

“See what I mean? But really, Dodge, I want ya with me. Ya my buddy.”

“If I join, how do I know Ruscoe won’t murder me in my sleep?”

“I wouldn’t allow that. A Purebred never hurts a Purebred.”

He thought about everything that Noah — his friend, his enemy, he didn’t know anymore — had revealed that night. He thought about all the times he’d stolen dinner from another dog, and how much he loved Manhattan and hated the Bronx. It was harder to survive up north.

Then it hit him. There was no such thing as Separate But Equal.

“I’ll never join. Ya just a bully, Noah.”

“Takes one to know one.”

It was settled. The lines were drawn. There was only one issue left.

Dodger looked at all the dogs’ positions, looked all around the room, desperate for some kind of plan. He saw Razor’s claws tightening on Oliver’s torso; he saw the kid wince in pain. There had to be some way out. There was always a way out.

His gaze found a pipe to his left, loose in the middle, hissing steam.

He locked eyes with Oliver. He nodded resolutely.

“Ya know, Ruscoe, ya look a lot like ya father…” He spoke casually to the Doberman, inching slowly to the left. “But ya uncle, DeSoto… I think ya got his nose.”

He saw the lightbulb click in Oliver’s head.

Dodger kicked the loose pipe with all his might, and in an instant, thick white steam has flooded the mechanic’s room with a violent hiss. “Now, kid!”

In shock, Razor’s fangs had loosened on the cat’s back — it was the chance he needed. Oliver leapt forward and clawed the Doberman’s nose, ferocious as a feral cat. Ruscoe screamed in pain, now sporting deep red gashes.

The steam cloud made it impossible to see anyone, and the Purebreds were biting and clawing amongst themselves, trying to get Oliver or Dodger. The cat sprung free and clawed his way up on Dodger’s back — he didn’t care that the claws hurt, that didn’t matter — and the pair wasted no time in racing out of the room and up the metal stairs to freedom.

“They’re getting away!” Ruscoe yelled furiously, holding his nose.

With Oliver clinging to his back, Dodger burst from the room and re-entered the Grand Central Station lobby. There were more people now, arriving for the earliest train, and they gasped and screamed to see the pack of dogs emerge from downstairs.

“Don’t go out the front door! They’ll catch us!” Oliver said frantically.

“Then where do we go?” The Purebreds were catching up.

Oliver pointed to the right. “That way! Hurry!”

Dodger saw where the kid meant and praised his genius. They charged through the lobby, ran around the Grand Central Terminal Clock’s information desk, ran under people’s legs who screamed and fell over. Security guards were waving batons at the Purebreds to keep them from the travelers, slowing them down. It was enough.

They escaped down another flight of stairs, this one leading to a subway docking station. The train doors were opening. Old passengers were exiting and new ones were entering. “So glad they held their board meeting in a train station!” Dodger laughed.

They darted through the crowd and snuck onboard, hiding under the seats, as far away from the passengers as they could be. No one seemed to mind — a cat and a dog were hardly the weirdest things on the New York Metro — and the doors closed. The subway took off.

“I knew you’d save me,” Oliver meowed tearfully.

Dodger laid down, exhausted but smiling. “Absitively posolutely.”

* * *

They’d been beaten and bruised by the security guards, but the Purebreds had escaped the Grand Central lobby relatively intact. Escaping out the massive front doors and onto the city streets, the Purebreds reconvened in a nearby alleyway.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Ruscoe sneered, nursing his injured nose.

Noah turned on him and growled, “Something ya wanna say?”

“Yeah.” The Doberman and Bullmastiff stood muzzle to muzzle, glaring at each other. The rest of their gang fell to the sidelines, muttering amongst themselves. “You never told me you were inviting Dodger to join. He’s a mongrel. He insulted my family.”

“He’s my friend!” Noah barked. “And he’s smart. Knows tha city better than anyone — we coulda used him.” Now he got in Ruscoe’s face. “Remember our arrangement. I’m tha brains. Ya tha brawn. Is that clear?”

“Clear as the Hudson,” Ruscoe sneered.

They stopped growling at each other to present a unified front to their subordinates. The Boxer, Husky, Great Dane, Malamute, German Shepherd, and Pit Bull looked at them expectantly. That meeting has undoubtedly been a failure, so what was their next move?

“Forget about Dodger. He’s just one dog.” Noah’s eyes narrowed. He stood with his head raised high, his chest pronounced, fangs and claws displayed proudly. “Our enemies are tha Underdogs, led by that traitor Skippy. Now we take tha fight to them.”

The Purebreds barked and cheered, insulting the Rottweiler as a blood traitor, a disgrace to pure-breeds everywhere. They all wanted to be the one to take him down.

“Manhattan belongs to tha elite. Tha pure. Tha upper class,” Noah barked. “Starting today, we double down our efforts. Starting today, we drive those mutts outta town.”

Sunrise over the skyscrapers was greeted with wolfish howls.

“Starting today, tha gang war has begun.”


End file.
